“Thirty years ago,” Gareth supplied.
“Was it that long? Was it? My, but I can see him more clearly than people I met last week. A stalwart man, he was, strong in both faith and action. I miss him.”
“As does William,” Erica Powers said. “He spoke to me of Newton just last month.”
“Did he. How fascinating. How is dear Wilberforce?”
Erica drew in upon herself. “Not well, I’m afraid.”
“What a pity. He will be sorely missed.” The gentleman tilted his head sharply to one side. Only then did Falconer realize he was blind in one eye. “You are quite a sizeable fellow, aren’t you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You and that other fellow standing there in the corner, you compress the air, you do. Wouldn’t want to come up against the either of you in a fight.” He seemed cheered by the thought. “You are a believer, I take it.”
“I am, sir.”
“Good. Jolly good.” He thumped his cane upon the flooring. “We need men such as yourself in the struggle ahead. Strong and stalwart and leaders in battle. Like Newton. Pity he’s gone ahead of us to Glory. Thirty years. My, but it seems like we were talking just the other day.”
The butler addressed the old gentleman in an entirely different tone. “Perhaps you’d care to come down for breakfast, sir.”
“Have I not eaten yet?” He fumbled for his vest watch. “My, look at the time. No wonder my belly’s given in to grousing. Gareth, will you join me?”
“If you will permit me, sir, I think I should remain at rest awhile longer.”
“Of course. Silly of me to ask.” Before the old man could lean upon his cane, the chief butler was there at his side and helped lift the man to his feet. “Kind of you, Cuthbert. Don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Sir.” The butler said more softly, “You wished to inform your guests of the two men arriving later today.”
“Did I, now. And who might they be?”
“The two members of Parliament, my lord.” “Indeed so. You are a prize, Cuthbert. A veritable prize among men.” He turned back. “Allies to our cause are stopping by. This day, is it, Cuthbert?”
“Either this evening or tomorrow morning, sir.”
“Quite so. They are here to ask me for help, no doubt. Which is a pity. I would so like to aid them, but you see my state. A shuffling old man, hardly able to help myself.”
“You are a prince among men,” Erica Powers said softly.
“Kind of you, my dear. Very kind. I was hoping I might ask them to meet with you instead. If any can help them, I warrant it would be you two.” At their nods, he turned to the door, Cuthbert at his side.
Falconer watched the old man’s shuffling departure and understood why no one wished to speak with him about his only son.
When the door closed behind them, Falconer dropped to the floor beside Hannah. “I need to ask a favor.”
The girl’s eyes widened. “Of me?”
He nodded. “There’s something that needs doing, and only you can manage this.”
She looked from one parent to the other. Clearly no adult had ever spoken to her in such a manner before.
The kitten mewed loudly at being ignored. Falconer scooped up the animal, which promptly began purring. “There is a young servant lass here at the manor. Her name is Serafina. She is in some sort of trouble. I can’t say precisely what it is. But I do know for certain that she needs a friend.”
“You want me to be her friend?”
“It’s a lot to ask, I know. But I think you would do her a world of good.” Falconer looked to the parents. “Serafina has run afoul of the young lord.”
“A scoundrel if ever there was one,” Erica agreed darkly.
“It would be good,” Falconer added, “if Serafina could find quarters outside the main house.”
“There is an extra room here,” Hannah said. “One next to mine.”
“She is a likely enough lass,” Falconer went on to Erica. “More than that I cannot say.”
Hannah’s parents exchanged a look, then Erica replied for them both, “Perhaps then we should have a word with the young lady.”
Serafina sat alone in the kitchen, though surrounded by noise and people. She had positioned her chair away from the central table, pushed back into an alcove between the central fireplace and the spice cabinet. The stone wall felt cool to her back. Three kitchen helpers peeled vegetables and chattered away. The cook and the pastry chef were busy by the ovens, casting the occasional comment to their mates as they worked. The steam was heavy and rich. Serafina dipped her husk into her tea and huddled down into her chair. She ate because she knew she needed the nourishment, though the sensation of hunger seemed to belong to another person. She sipped her tea and tasted the sugar, yet she could not claim anything as belonging to herself—not the flavors nor the moment’s ease. She felt as though her spirit had been wrenched free of her body, that she was seeing everything from a very great distance.
She could see how the past days had been spent running away. Not from this place, nor from the work, nor even from her attacker. No, it mattered little where her physical form was. So long as she could escape from the agony of looking inward.
But the morning’s shocks had left her unable to flee any longer.
Luca had lied to her from the beginning. He was married. He had been involved with at least one other woman, also married. He had promised her what he needed to promise in order to have what he wanted. And what he had wanted was not marriage. Nor love.
She in turn had taken his lies and twisted them into lies of her own. She had claimed her actions were motivated by love. Whether there had ever been any truth to this, she could not say. But she now realized that much of what she did had been aimed at avoiding anything, any truth that might deny her what she wanted.
Only now there was no escaping the fact that what she had wanted had never existed except within her own imagination. And all the people she had hurt along the way, her parents especially, had only sought to protect her.
Serafina started slightly as the cook leaned forward and refilled her cup with steaming tea. She tried to form a thanks, but her mind did not seem capable of words just then. Even so, the kitchen drew slightly back into focus. She realized that others had come in, and one of them was the headmistress. Without actually understanding the words, she sensed that people were whispering about her.
A waking nightmare gradually took form in the steam spiraling up from her cup. She saw anew the young lord, felt his hand upon her throat, and saw the fierce hunger in his eyes. She shuddered at the thought that this was perhaps her punishment. And shuddered again at how she deserved that and more.
Then another shadow fell over her. She smelled the man before she saw him, a mixture of soap and smoke and male strength. She did not look up, nor did she move to draw away as he pulled up a chair and seated himself next to her. He settled a clay bowl into his lap. The smell from the steaming water was pungent but not unpleasant. He then reached over and took her cup and the remaining husk. She turned just enough to see the white cloth laying over his shoulders, the way his strong hands knew precisely what to do.
Falconer took hold of her left hand. He turned the palm upward and prodded gently at the places around the edge of the filthy rag. He then dipped her hand into the bowl. It stung mightily. She winced but did not try to draw away.
“Steady now,” he murmured. “That’s a good lass.”
Serafina lifted her gaze a fraction more. It was safe to examine him now, because he was intent upon her hand. He kneaded the rag, releasing the ash and clouding the water. “Hot water, the hotter the better,” he said. “Mixed with brine and vinegar. You know the word brine?”
“Salt.”
“Sea salt,” he corrected. “But I reckon whatever Cook uses is good enough in a pinch. Hold still now, this may sting a bit.”
She bit her lip as he began unraveling the rag. When he had to tug to release
it from her flesh, he did so with remarkable gentleness. Swiftly enough the rag was lifted from the water. He withdrew her hand, wiped it with his clean cloth, and carefully inspected the palm. He grunted over what he saw. “Let’s have the other one now.”
Serafina continued her oblique inspection of him. He was a warrior. Of that she had no doubt. His face held an angular strength that was fierce even in repose. His dark hair was oiled and drawn back into a tightly knotted pigtail, like Venetian sailors she had seen along the city’s harbor. His eyes were almost as dark as his hair and held an alert intensity. His hands and wrists were very strong. She saw with an artist’s accuracy a remarkable resemblance between this man and Luca. Yet the similarities were all superficial. How she could say this with any certainty, Serafina did not know. Yet there was a calm force about this man, one so potent it reassured even her.
He dried her right hand and gave it a careful inspection. Then he rose and carried the clay basin over to the doorway and poured out the dirty water. Everyone in the kitchen was casting glances her way. Serafina dropped her eyes to her hands. The blisters looked raw and angry.
“No, don’t touch.” The man walked over and reseated himself. The bowl was refilled with clean water. “All right, put them both in. Aye, the water’s hot. But it’ll do you good.”
She forced her hands into the almost scalding liquid. The blisters felt like they were being stabbed with tiny needles.
“Nothing better than brine and vinegar. It’s what we used for the young middies when the hemp burned their hands. I don’t suppose you know what a middy is, though, do you.”
Serafina shook her head. Then she realized he could not see her, for his attention remained upon her hands. “No, sir.”
“I’m not a sir, lass. Do you remember my name?” He kept his voice low.
“John Falconer.”
“That’s it. Most folks call me by my second name alone. Falconer.” He kneaded the palms with gentle stroking motions. “There’s ash in the skin, which troubles me. But you’re young enough, maybe you won’t scar overmuch. A middy, lass, is a young midshipman. They join the crew as young boys and get their learning before the mast. That’s how I learned the sea. I stood my first watch at twelve years of age, high on the mizzen, in every weather the sea could throw at me.”
His voice was as soothing as his touch. He kneaded one hand after the other, halting just as the flaking scabs drew such pain she almost cried out. He seemed to know how much she could take, which was when he released one hand and started on the other. He directed his voice to her hands as he asked, “How did you let them get this bad?”
What was she supposed to say? That the pain, like her fatigue, had helped her escape from looking inside? She felt a hot tear course down her cheek. “You are too kind.”
Falconer looked into her face for the first time since seating himself. His eyes tracked the tear. She could see him clearly now. The scar coursing up his cheekbone only accented the gentle light to his eyes. She blinked and released another tear.
“Who hurt you, lass?” he murmured.
“Nobody. I did it all to myself. And to others.” Serafina had to stop then, for to say more would have meant releasing the sobs that clenched her up tight.
But her remark only deepened the gaze. As though he understood what she meant. Which of course was impossible.
Falconer kept his voice so low the kitchen clatter rendered his words only for her. “Do you trust me, lass?”
“Oh, yes.” She did not need to think that one through.
He turned to the cook and called, “I don’t suppose you have any goose fat I could use.”
“That I do, sir. That I do.” The cook passed over a covered bowl, glanced at Serafina’s hands, tut-tuted once, and retreated to the stove.
He withdrew Serafina’s hands from the pinkish water. Falconer dried them carefully, then coated the palms with the fat. He tore a clean cloth into strips and bound her hands. “You can’t leave Harrow Hall, is that right?”
“I have nowhere else to go.”
“What about family?”
Her answer was very broken. “They are lost to me.”
He cast her another glance, full of meaning. There and gone in a dark flash of comprehension. “Then we must find you a place where you’ll be protected from the young lord. I have friends here. People I think you should trust. I do.”
He looked up once more and saw she did not understand. “There is a young girl. Hannah. She has been very ill. She needs a companion.” He waited. When Serafina did not respond, he went on, “Will you meet with her parents?”
Again she did not need to think this through. “I will do whatever you say.”
Chapter 20
Falconer tossed and turned on the narrow creaking bed. This early morning had not been marred by his habitual nightmare. He had been awake for hours. He lay on his back and stared at the ceiling. The predawn light was a pale wash upon the world, a perfect canvas for the mind’s images. He could study her as though she were there before him now.
Serafina was a singular beauty. But there was far more than loveliness at work here. He sensed a kindred spirit, one who had been torched by her own mistakes. It left him hoping for the impossible. Yet his years of facing deadly risks had taught him to measure the odds. And the odds here were all against him. She was young, she was lovely, she was highborn. He still felt the soft flesh of her hands in his. He saw the way she held herself, heard the manner of her speech, and knew this was no servant maid. Which meant that whatever her transgressions, her beauty would draw her back into the front parlors of some man far richer than himself. Someone who knew the proper ways of highborn life. Someone other than John Falconer.
He finally rolled from his bed and dressed and lit a candle. His glance fell upon the two pamphlets. They too had given him much to feed upon. Falconer found his place in the Bible and began his readings. But this day, divine communion did not arrive. Her face was there upon the page, the shattered gaze staring up at him.
Falconer rose, wrenched open the door, and made his way down the passage. The previous afternoon he had shifted his berth from the servants’ corridor to a chamber set in the rafters above Gareth and Erica’s apartment. Daniel snored away in the next room. Softly he started down the stairs, boots in hand.
But on the next level he was greeted by a small voice saying, “Serafina has nightmares too.”
“Lass, you should be resting abed.”
“I slept almost all yesterday afternoon. Where are you going? Can I come?”
“Not out into the dawn chill.” Before Hannah could protest further, he added, “I was just going for tea. I’ll bring you back a cup.”
When Falconer arrived in the kitchen, the cook was already bustling about. “You’re up early,” he greeted her.
“His lordship likes his early matins, he does.” She was busy setting out a breakfast upon a silver tray.
Falconer realized it was Sunday. The week’s onward rush had stolen away his sense of time. “Is there a church nearby?”
“You’re a churchgoing man, are you?”
“I am.”
“Wouldn’t have thought that myself, you with the manner of a battler and a bruiser about you.”
He decided there was nothing to be said to that. He turned at the sound of footsteps and found himself facing the chief butler. Cuthbert was dressed as always in long coat and starched white shirt. “Good morning, sir.”
“How’s the young lady?” Cuthbert asked.
Falconer supposed he was speaking of Serafina but could not be certain. “I hope she’s resting, sir.”
The butler nodded acceptance and said to the cook, “His lordship is asking after his breakfast.”
“Which is ready and piping hot.” When the butler had departed, she asked Falconer, “You’re after tea, I suppose.”
“For myself and the Powers lass.”
“She’s a pretty one for such a little waif.”
“Careful,” Falconer said. “She’ll steal your heart clean away.”
“I believe I noticed another lass doing that to you yesterday.” She clattered about, giving him no chance to object. “I’ll make up a breakfast tray for the family, shall I?”
Falconer felt the warmth in his face as he accepted the tray. The cook gave him a knowing smile and said, “The church in Harrow village is attended by all the servants who have a mind. It makes for a nice walk through the forest, there and back. A mile down to the side gates. You’ll see the steeple from there. Makes for as fine a courting spot as any I’ve seen.”
He trod back across the rear walk, arguing with himself more than with the smiling cook. He climbed the stairs to discover Serafina standing in the hallway. For a moment he let himself believe she awaited him. She wore the dark servants’ garb, her hair bound and hidden beneath the head scarf. She curtsied and said, “Good morning, sir.”
“I asked you not to address me so. How are you today, lass?”
“My hands are better, thank you.” She kept her eyes downcast. “Hannah decided to go back to bed.”
“Probably for the best,” he acknowledged, though Falconer wondered if she had done so to let them be alone. “Will you take tea?”
Serafina followed him into the apartment’s front room. “I am instructed to go to the kitchen for my breakfast.”
Her voice and accent made a song of the simplest of words. “From now on, you shall eat with the Powers family.”
She fumbled with her apron. “And the fireplaces?”
“Those are someone else’s responsibility now. Sit yourself down there.”
Falconer made rather a mess of pouring the tea, but she did not seem to notice. Serafina avoided his gaze as she whispered thanks and accepted the cup. “You say your hands are healing?” he asked.
“They don’t hurt as much.”
Heirs of Acadia - 03 - The Noble Fugitive Page 20
