“A good sign. I’ll have a look at them later.” The thought of holding those soft palms once more gave him pause. He drank his tea, then said, “There’s a church service this morning. I thought I might perhaps go. Would you—”
“No. I can’t. I mustn’t.” The words were a tumbling rush.
“Do you not believe in God?”
“Oh yes. But . . .”
Falconer inspected her carefully over the rim of his mug. “Drink your tea, lass.” When she had taken a tentative sip, he asked, “You are a Christian?”
“I was. Before . . .”
Her voice had returned to the shaky whisper of the previous day. It reminded him of distant birdsong. “Before what?”
She set down her cup. And shook her head.
Falconer sighed. His gut churned, but his mind felt crystal clear. Which was a remarkable feat. On the one hand, this young maiden ignited a hunger in him as fierce as any blaze. Yet there was something else at work here. He knew this with a visceral certainty. He sighed again, trying with all his might to push away his own selfish longings. “Look at me, Serafina.”
Meeting her gaze made it even harder to think beyond what he wanted. He felt awash in human desire. His voice grated in his own ears. “You said you trusted me.”
“I do.”
“Then tell me what it is that keeps you from church.”
“I have sinned.” The words ended in a soft moan.
“Go on.”
“I loved a man who was very, very bad. All knew it but me. I have lied and stolen and deceived. I ran away. I . . .” She dropped her chin once more. Back and forth she shook her head.
Falconer shut his eyes. His prayer was a desperate plea. I am so weak, I am so frail, I am so human. Help me to do right here, Lord. Because without thy direction and strength, I will only wreak havoc on this gift of trust.
He opened his eyes and rose to his feet to go and stand by the window. “How old are you?”
“Seventeen,” she told her bandaged hands. “Eighteen in three months.”
“There are worse things,” he said quietly, “than being seventeen and having loved the wrong man.”
Her head still bent, she confessed, “I have betrayed every person who ever loved me.”
Falconer responded with a voice coppery hard, as beaten and hot as tempered metal. “When I was seventeen I killed my first man.”
Serafina looked up, obviously struggling to make sense of his words.
“You think you carry guilt? You think you are too far removed from salvation for the Savior to care over your soul?” He struck his own chest with a fist shaped as though it held a dagger. “I am living testimony to how wrong a life can go. And how far the Savior’s reach extends.”
The shame of confessing left him hunched over. But he forced himself to continue. “God has found a way to reach me. What good I am to Him, I cannot say. I feel as though my tread shames the stones of every church I enter. But Christ died for me. Of that I am utterly certain. Whatever you have done, He holds out his arms for you as well.”
He could not stay with her longer. Falconer crossed the room and opened the door. “I shall leave for church in one hour.”
Falconer dressed with as much care as he could manage, given that everything he possessed was travel weary and salt stained. He wiped his boots with a hunk of the breakfast bread in an attempt to bring out what shine was left. He chose the cleanest of his shirts and the only pair of trousers still holding a crease. He went out to the stables and borrowed a wire brush from the stable lad and did what he could for the state of his coat.
Harry, the young man who worked the woodpile, was seated by the stables greasing down a pair of shotguns. “I’ve curried horses who looked better after a day’s ride over open country,” he commented wryly.
Falconer tossed the coat over a nearby rail. “I don’t know why I bother.”
“It’s a bonny enough day,” Harry agreed, misunderstanding. “You won’t be needing such cover.”
“That coat was given to me by a fine American gent. But a month’s travel on the open seas has near about done it in.”
“There’s a slop chest we can all draw from.” Harry propped his gun against the stable wall. “That’s what the sailors call it, right?”
“How are you knowing I’m a sailor?”
“What you said to Serafina.”
Hearing her name upon the lips of another brought a flush to his features. He scowled. “You were listening?”
“Not me. But word carries fast around here.”
The young man walked into the stables and returned bearing a long coat with bone buttons and a velvet collar. It was a fashionable item, with a long split tail similar to the butler’s coat. “I can’t wear that,” Falconer objected.
“Don’t see why not. The young lord won’t be seen in anything for more than a single season.” Harry held it up to the light. “This was cut big so he could wear it as a top coat. It should fit you fine.”
“This belongs to the lordship’s son?”
“That or one of his guests. Try it on.” Harry took a step back. “Bit snug about the shoulders, but you look ready for the high street, you do.”
Falconer liked the lad and his merry grin. “I’m much obliged.”
“There’s those among us who’ve taken a liking to our blond ghost. You’ve got friends among the staff now. Especially Miss Agatha. You met her yet?” At the shake of Falconer’s head, Harry said, “She was Mrs. Marcham’s predecessor. Beloved by all. Serafina’s her niece.”
“Why is Serafina here?”
“A proper mystery, that is. Lot of speculation, but Miss Agatha is the only one who knows, and she isn’t saying.” Harry grinned. “You find out something, you let me know, will you? Fair exchange for the coat on your back.”
When Falconer returned upstairs it was to find Serafina waiting on the landing. She was accompanied by Hannah, who said plaintively, “It’s true, then. You’re going to church.”
Falconer noticed how the young girl wore a fresh long dress and had brushed her hair and tucked it into a hat tied in a bow under her chin. She clutched a coat to her chest.
The door behind them opened, and Erica Powers came into view. Falconer nodded a greeting. “Good morning, ma’am.” He then turned his attention to the child and said, “You look right lovely this morning, lass.”
“I can’t go, can I?”
“It’s a mile walk to the gates, and no telling how far beyond that to the church.”
Hannah gave her mother a pleading look. “I feel so much better, Mama.”
“A mile, darling,” Erica said gently. “In each direction.”
Falconer had an idea, one that brought a smile to his face. He reached out. “Let’s be having you, then.”
Hannah slipped on her coat, yet said doubtfully, “You can’t carry me all that way.”
“Let’s just go see what we can find, what do you say.” Falconer lifted the girl and carried her out. Serafina and Mrs. Powers trailed along behind.
When they arrived at the stables, Falconer said, “Hannah, say hello to Harry.”
“Good morning, Master Harry.”
“Hello, lass.” The lad wiped his hands with an oily cloth and turned his attention to Falconer’s other companions. “Good morning, I’m sure, Mrs. Powers. How is your husband?”
“He rested well.”
“That’s good, ma’am. I’m glad to hear it.”
“I was wondering,” Falconer said, “if there might be a steed gentle enough to carry the young lass to church.”
“A horse?” Hannah’s voice rose to nearly a squeal. “For me?”
“I’ve got just the one,” Harry exclaimed. “You just stay right where you are.”
Harry disappeared into the stables and returned leading a dappled gray mare. “We keep this old lady around for the odd guest who doesn’t know one end of the horse from another.”
“She’s so big” was Hannah’s
comment.
“Aye, but she’s a sweetheart.”
The horse nuzzled Harry’s shoulder as he flipped a blanket over its broad back and strapped on a sidesaddle. Hannah observed the world with round eyes as Falconer lifted her into place.
“What do you think?” Falconer asked Erica.
She responded by saying to her daughter, “You will mind your manners and do exactly what Mr. Falconer tells you.”
“Yes, Mama.”
Harry handed Falconer the reins. “Follow the trail leading away from the kitchen. Through the forest, the gates will be right there in front of you. Look there, see the others making their way?”
Serafina and Falconer walked in silence, with Hannah perched atop the horse. Hannah was as happy as if she had just been handed the world. Falconer draped the reins over his shoulder, but the horse needed no control. It fell behind the pair of them and matched their pace without a tug upon the leather.
As they entered the forest, a breeze caught the edge of Serafina’s bonnet. It fell back on her shoulders, revealing hair that glowed like gold in the sunlight. To Falconer’s mind it transformed her face to yet another level of loveliness. Serafina must have sensed that he was watching her, for she gave him a shy smile as she returned her hat to its place and retied the bow.
The tiny smile was cast in such sorrowful lines it wrenched Falconer’s heart. “I have been where you are, lass.”
He expected her to deny it. Instead, she looked at him a long moment, then said very softly, “Are we friends?”
“I would like that,” he replied, his voice so gruff he scarcely recognized it as his own. “Very much.”
She returned her gaze to the lane ahead. “It was very nice what you did, finding a way for Miss Hannah to come.”
The child spoke then. “I am ever so high up.”
“You look so very nice up there.”
Hannah tucked her dress about her legs. “Isn’t she lovely?” she asked, stroking what she could reach of the horse’s mane. “What do you think her name might be?”
“We must ask Harry when we return.” Serafina glanced at Falconer. The sorrow was softer now, but still evident. “You do not know of what you speak.”
“I know enough.”
She shook her head but did not turn away. “Destroyed by your own hand. Lost to the world and yourself both. No punishment is fitting. No pain too bitter. A great gaping wound where your heart should be. Every act a terrible crime. Every thought—”
“No more, please.”
“Lass, Serafina, I do not speak to condemn you. I speak because I know. I know . . .” He stopped. Everything he said was doubly tainted. He could not release this longing for her. And he felt his own inadequacy to explain. He shook his head.
To his surprise, Serafina asked, “What do I do?”
“When there is no hope, no future, no life ahead,” Falconer said to the path by his feet. “When all is lost, seek God. Take His future as your own.”
“What does that mean?”
“I am no good with words,” he sighed.
“No. Tell me, please.” “Ask Him not just for healing but for a purpose. Those were the words given to me in my own dark night.”
“And does He? Heal, I mean.”
He looked over and saw the strain of sleepless nights, of terrible guilt there upon her young features. “I can’t lie to you. I still carry the thorn. But I have found hope. And I go forward because of Him.”
The message was so inadequate Falconer wanted to apologize. But before he could, Serafina nodded slowly. She turned back toward the path ahead, but not before Falconer spotted something new in her features. Not healing. Certainly not that. But a sliver of calm, of hope.
Chapter 21
Like the surrounding cottages, the Harrow village church was built of ancient stone and possessed a squat Norman bell tower. The church was also very full. Their appearance garnered quite a number of turns of the head from other household staff. The only remaining spaces were well at the back. Hannah remained between Falconer and Serafina as they slipped into the pew.
It was the first time Falconer had sat in a proper church since Georgetown, yet he found little of the longed-for peace. Instead, the service was constantly disturbed by his own internal musings. The longer he remained in the church, the more audible became his thoughts.
He was a fighter, not a thinker. He was best when aimed at a purpose. He could move with a focused passion that carried him over almost any obstacle.
But not this.
Falconer sensed a divine purpose behind his being here with the lass. He could not name the last time he had felt such certainty. God had brought them together. God wished to use Falconer for His purpose. The girl needed not Falconer, but God.
The sermon ended without Falconer having heard more than a few words. As the others rose to pronounce the Creed, Falconer gripped the pew back in front of him and rested his forehead upon his hands. His was a terse warrior’s prayer.
He remained as he was, hoping against hope for some divine response. Around him voices droned. Within, however, stirred nothing save weakness and improper longings.
I can’t do this. I am not strong enough. Thy desire is for someone to speak to her for thyself. I want her for myself. The more I am with her, the less real my words seem. I speak of thee and think only of me. Find another to do thy bidding. Take this temptation away from me.
He lifted his head and was surprised to find that he was sweating. And more surprised still to see that the others were filing from the church. The service had ended, and he had not noticed.
What was worse still was how Serafina observed him. He saw trust there, and he felt it was unfounded. She should not be trusting him at all. But knowing the truth was not enough to release him. He sat and knew as long as she gazed at him, he could not rise.
She gave him another small smile, a gift of open trust. Then Hannah stood, and Serafina rose to accompany her from the church. Numbly Falconer followed them outside. He hefted Hannah onto the horse’s back and led the mare through the gates and back toward Harrow Hall.
Only when they were a ways down the forest lane did he notice it.
When he stopped in his tracks, Serafina asked, “What is it?”
Falconer shook his head, not in response to her query but rather to clear his mind. The wind had stopped. There was a storm on the horizon. Was that what alerted his sense of caution? He could not be certain. Perhaps it was nothing more than his own internal disquiet.
But Falconer sensed more, an external danger. He sniffed the air, willing himself to push aside the internal quandary and do what he did best.
He smelled sulfur.
“What’s the matter?” Serafina asked again.
In reply, Falconer wheeled about. “Can you ride?” he asked her.
“I have a few times.”
“Hannah, slide up so Serafina can sit in the saddle. That’s a good girl.”
Serafina allowed Falconer to help her into the saddle. “Lass, you must keep tight hold of both Hannah and the reins,” he instructed. “Ride as fast as you safely can.” He pointed to where the stragglers were disappearing into the woods. “Join up with the others. Put yourselves in the midst of them.”
“What about you?”
Falconer slapped the horse’s flank. “Go!”
Serafina and Hannah both cast worried glances behind as the horse galloped away. Falconer remained where he was long enough to be certain the pair would not fall off. Then he sniffed the air once more to confirm the direction. He stepped off the path and entered the forest cover. And he ran.
He found a game trail that paralleled the lane back to the house. Now and then he spied the horse pulling ahead. He ran harder, his mouth open wide to keep himself from gasping aloud. He placed each step as carefully as he could, ducking under branches and disturbing the air no more than necessary.
Then he spotted them.
There were two of them. The men were
dressed in hunting green and almost melded into the trees. From the forest lane they would be invisible. But the hunters had not expected to be observed from this angle. Their attention was upon the lane.
At the sound of the horse’s thundering hooves, they raised their weapons, aiming long rifles at the two helpless riders. The trigger was sparked by a slow fuse. Falconer knew many hunters who preferred these ancient pieces, for they were legendary in their accuracy. They needed to be. Such guns took forever to reload.
Falconer’s mind raced faster than his legs as he shot forward. He had time to notice the pockmarks on the closer man’s face. Time even to notice the second man’s scarred hands as he swiveled his musket around and took aim at Falconer. But Falconer shifted his run such that the first man stood between them. The second attacker tried to shift his aim, but the surrounding trees blocked him from traversing the long barrel.
Falconer crashed into the nearest man, smashing him into the second. Both attackers tumbled back, and one of the guns went off in a coughing bellow of smoke. But the bullet flew high, frightening a flock of pigeons and causing someone on the trail to cry out in alarm.
“Flee!” Falconer shouted to Serafina and Hannah. He ducked as the attacker whose gun had fired plucked a long-bladed knife from his belt and swung it in an arc of flashing steel. “Run!”
The second man was up now and trying to bring his gun to bear. Falconer ducked another knife blow and reached for the spent rifle now lying on the forest floor. He tripped and fell over an unseen root and kept rolling. Which was a very good thing, for he heard the second gun cough and felt the wind of a passing bullet somewhere near his head.
Falconer came up with the rifle at his chest. He caught the attacker’s knife on the gun barrel as it took aim for his eyes. Metal screeched upon metal as he parried the blow.
Falconer clipped the knife wielder’s hand with the flint, parried a swipe from the other attacker, and then swung the barrel in a short sharp arc that caught the knife wielder between the eyes. The man blinked in the blurry manner of one striving not to go down. Falconer ducked a swing from the other rifle and applied the barrel a second time. The man went down hard.
Heirs of Acadia - 03 - The Noble Fugitive Page 21
