The Night Angel

by T. Davis Bunn

  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 amens, 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.”

  Chapter 27

  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.

  Afterward, when the entire congregation was feeling satisfied in every way, the pastor prayed for half an hour, asking the Lord’s blessing upon the planting, the new arrivals and their travels north, the community, and on specific members who had ailments or special needs. The last name he mentioned was Falconer, asking first for safe travels and then for his safe return to Salem. When the chorus of amens ended, Falconer found several people watching him, Ada and Matt among them. Only then did he realize the full import of the pastor’s final blessing. Return to Salem echoed through his mind and heart. He dared not look at Ada again.

  Emmett Reeves made preparations to leave with the banker Grobbe and a half-dozen men from the bachelors’ choir. The desire to help Theo Henning and the prospect of double wages paid in new gold coin encouraged the village elders to grant the men temporary leave. The sight of this strong band blessed by the pastor before setting off eased Falconer’s worry over how Theo would fare at the Gastonia mine.

  The next morning Falconer walked the length of the village. Ada joined him, while Joseph rode a dozen paces behind. Falconer was leading as fine a horse as any he had ever seen, much less ridden. Matt was sitting in the saddle and listened to every word his mother and Falconer said while his pup gamboled about the horse’s feet. The gelding was on loan from the banker Grobbe, on the promise that Falconer would keep it safe and return it as swiftly as possible. Falconer needed no further reason to come back to Salem.

  “How long will you be gone?” Ada asked at his side.

  “Let’s see,” Falconer began, walking with the horse’s reins draped over his shoulder. The chestnut mare gleamed like autumn gold in the morning light. “We must reach the Moss Plantation within three days to stay within his time limit. A day to complete the business, perhaps two.”

&n
bsp; “That could stretch into a week,” Ada noted, a wistfulness in her voice that made Falconer want to embrace her on the spot. “And even then you probably will not be able to start back.”

  Falconer found himself unable to suppress a chuckle.

  “You find that humorous?”

  “No, Ada. I am laughing because of this tumult I feel in my heart.”

  Her upturned face was solemn. “You are thinking of the woman in Washington?”

  “No again. I wonder at that, I tell you quite honestly.” He looked down at her. “But just now I find myself only able to think about the woman walking alongside me.”

  She flushed and dropped her gaze. For a brief heartbeat of time their hands brushed together. Falconer felt a lingering fire long after she had stepped away to a proper distance.

  Ada asked, “And after the farm you must go to Washington?”

  “Yes. I have other responsibilities, as you know. The man who sent me on this quest is no doubt concerned by my long absence.”

  “The woman, Serafina—is it her father?”

  “Alessandro Gavi. Yes.”

  “You will see the young woman again.”

  “Yes, I will.” He wanted to tell Ada that it did not matter. But he could not until he stood before Serafina and knew the truth in her presence.

  Ada did not respond as he might have expected. Instead she said, “I sat by my husband’s grave yesterday. For a long, long time. I wondered at how I could still love that good man and yet now find my heart expanding, possibly for another.”

  “Ada—”

  She halted him with a slight motion of one hand. “I beg you to wait and speak when you can do so with an open heart and clear mind.”

  “Aye,” he said softly, marveling at her wisdom. “Aye.”

  They said nothing more until they reached the village border, and Falconer lifted Matt down. He hugged the boy twice—once for himself and once more for what he wished he could give Ada.

  Ada waited until he swung into the saddle. Then she gripped her son before her with both arms across his chest, in a manner that told Falconer she too wished to hold someone else. “Just tell me one thing,” she said and could not keep the tremble from her voice.

  “Yes, Ada. You don’t need to ask. Yes.”

  She did nonetheless. “Tell me that you shall return, John Falconer.”

  Matt turned and buried his face against his mother’s shoulder. Falconer said, “May the Lord our God keep you safe, Ada Hart.” He took a breath to try and still the quake in his own voice. “You and your wonderful son. May He bless you and yours until I am back with you again.”

  “The only blessing I shall ask for, John Falconer,” she said and wiped away a single tear, “is that you return swiftly home.”

  The horses were far more rested than the ones who rode them. Three hours into the journey, Falconer’s two days of respite in Salem vanished. The horse’s gait jarred his very bones. No doubt Joseph felt the same, but the man made no protest. They left the Wachau Valley behind and soon came upon the stubby Virginia hills. Though the forest closed in and the trail narrowed, they made good progress. By the time they halted at midafternoon to rest their horses, they had covered more than their group had during two full days on the journey south.

  The two men rode on until darkness threatened the horses’ footing. They halted in a defile carved by floodwaters between the river and the cliff face, and ate a good meal from Ada’s larder. Falconer stared into the fire, yearning after more than the woman’s food.

  Where the road broadened in the approach to Danville, they urged the horses to a trot. They saved half a day, perhaps more, by riding straight on through the town. They spent the night in a drovers’ corral, then joined the Richmond Turnpike and pushed harder still, arriving at the Moss farm toward late afternoon.

  At the point where the plantation turnoff met the road, Joseph pulled his horse up hard. He slipped from the saddle and stood easing his back and staring at the ground.

  “Isn’t this our turning?” Falconer asked.

  Joseph raised his head to point at a stone milepost beside the plantation path. “For most of my life, that marker shaped the border of my world.”

  “Then why are we stopping?”

  Joseph pointed at the ground by his feet. “Looks like a lot of folks been coming and going down the Moss trail.”

  Falconer slid from the saddle and studied where Joseph was pointing. He saw just prints of boots and horses’ hooves. “Are you certain?”

  Joseph squinted at Falconer. “You don’t see nothing?”

  “Ask me about the feather of wind upon high-topped waves,” Falconer replied. “Tell me to read the portent of an approaching squall. But markings in road dust are an alien script to my eyes.”

  Joseph harrumphed once, then returned his attention to the road at their feet. “I count a whole passel of riders. Can’t say for sho’ how many, but it weren’t that long back.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “See there, the markings in that print?”

  Falconer bent closer still and shook his head. “No.”

  “You can see the maker’s mark on that horseshoe, plain as the nose on your face.”

  Falconer gave up, straightened, and looked up the empty road. “How would our hunters know to find us here?”

  “Now you’re askin’ something I can’t answer.” Joseph’s features tightened. “But I got me that creepy crawly feelin’ under my skin.”

  “As do I,” Falconer said slowly.

  “What do we do?”

  Falconer tightened the belt about his middle, as though it still bore sword and pistol. “We plan.”

  Falconer approached the Moss plantation with his senses on full alert. At a narrow stream that formed one of the orchard’s borders, his horse dropped his head to drink. The fields seemed in far worse shape now, for weeds were the only crop he could see. Falconer looked over his shoulder and tried to spot Joseph back in the woods at the bottom of the hill, but he could see nothing.

  They had made their way through the forest on the closest approach to the slave quarters. Joseph had left Falconer minding the horses and crept forward on foot alone. He was back soon enough, shaking his head and announcing the quarters were empty. Twice Joseph had given his one-word judgment over the state of the plantation land. “Evil,” he said, shaking his head.

  The house simply looked asleep to Falconer. Like the entire hilltop had elected to separate itself from the normal course of farming life and changing seasons. The paint still flaked and scattered. Rotting fruit still added a fermented tint to the air. The crows still cackled from the trees. But there was no other sound. No lowing cattle, no sound of activity from within the house.

  After remounting his horse, he rode past the nearest outbuilding and entered the plantation’s swept front yard.

  “Anyone there?” Falconer’s greeting drifted unanswered. He spied a shifting of the outbuilding’s shadow. And knew he was not alone.

  “Mr. Moss? It’s John Falconer. I’m here to—”

  “Oh, we know what you’re up to.” A vaguely familiar figure stepped around the corner of the front porch and stood with gun aimed directly at him. “John Falconer, that what you said your name was?”

  Falconer remembered where he had seen the man before. “You’re that slaver. Saunders, is it?”

  “And you’re that man up to no good.” Jeb Saunders motioned with his percussion musket. “Drop the reins and lift those hands up where me and my men can see ’em.”

  Falconer did as he was ordered, glad he had traded mounts with Joseph, leaving Grobbe’s horse safely out of harm’s way.

  Two more men separated themselves from the outbuilding while another four appeared from either side of the house. All aimed weapons at Falconer. “I’m not armed,” he told them.

  “Dangerous way for an anti-slaver to travel these parts. Alone and unarmed.” The musket motioned once more. “Drop out of that saddle. Nic
e and easy, now. I’ll shoot you if I have to. You’re worth more to me alive, but not enough to put up with any nonsense.”

  Falconer kicked free of his stirrups as rough hands pulled him from his horse. He managed to stay on his feet. Two men kept their weapons on him as another jerked his hands behind his back and tied him tightly. Another rope was laced around his ankles. Then a bearish-looking man with a heavy beard stepped out in front of Falconer. “Remember me?”

  Falconer ignored Joyner’s leer and watched as a man he recalled from his meeting with Saunders went through his saddlebags. The young man called up to the man on the porch, “The gold ain’t there, Jeb!”

  “Which means he ain’t traveling alone after all. Cody, you saddle up and go hunt down this feller’s friends.”

  The man sprinted toward the outbuildings as Joyner demanded of Saunders, “What gold are you goin’ on about?”

  “Why, the gold he done took from your mine.” Jeb Saunders came down the plantation’s front steps. “You don’t reckon he’d just mosey on up here empty-handed, do you?”

  “When were you gonna tell me about that?”

  “You got a good-sized head on you, I reckon you oughta have brains enough to figure some things out on your own.” Jeb kept his eyes on Falconer as he ambled over. “Yep, you’re as big as I remember.”

  Joyner wheeled about and roared at Falconer, “Where’s my gold?”

  “Save your breath. I know this kind.” Jeb’s smile was as empty as his eyes. “He ain’t gonna give you a thing but trouble.”

  “He don’t look like much of a nuisance with his hands tied, does he?” Joyner turned back, his breath raspy with rage. “I got something for you, mister.”

  Falconer ducked the punch, or tried to, but Joyner’s fist approached with the speed of a cannonball, connecting on his forehead with a force he felt to his toes. His entire body went numb. He sensed his legs giving way and noticed with mild interest the approach of the earth. He felt nothing, not even as he landed hard. Falconer fell into a pit without a bottom, and darkness was all around.