Heirs of Acadia - 03 - The Noble Fugitive

by T. Davis Bunn

  Serafina. The sound of her name on his lips was a hopeless groan to an uncaring wind.

  It was the wrong time to have fallen in love, and with a lass far beyond his reach. He had been entrusted with her safety, and perhaps with a divine motive as well. But all he could think of was how the days ahead would be diminished by her absence.

  “There you are!”

  Falconer started at the sound of that young voice. “What are you doing out in this storm, my little one?”

  “I like it!” Hannah danced a little circle. “And I’m better, see?”

  “I think you’re excited over the coming journey to London.” He swept her up, reveling in the feel of those two slender arms wrapping about his neck. “You mustn’t get overtired, lass.”

  Falconer entered the old manor’s rear entrance and climbed the stairs. He set her down on the landing. “Now I want you to rest easy. Will you do that for me?”

  “Yes.” She smiled mischievously. “I have a secret.”

  “Your father often says he’s never met someone who likes secrets more.”

  “This one is about you.” She whirled about and raced into the apartment. “Wait right there!”

  He heard soft footfalls and turned to face Serafina. Only she looked quite different. The surprise pushed him back a step. “You look proper lovely, ma’am.”

  She smiled nervously. “Please, I would prefer that you call me by my name.”

  He fumbled with his hat. The design of her dress was unlike anything he had ever seen. Not that he had much experience with women’s finery. But Serafina’s manner had changed as well. She held herself erect. Her hair was pulled back and hung like a golden veil down her back. “Your gown is most fetching.”

  “It’s not mine. But thank you.”

  Her voice was the same and yet different. She spoke softly, yet the quality of defeat was missing. “You are better?”

  “Thanks to you and . . .” Her eyes rounded at something behind Falconer’s back. “Oh no, you mustn’t!”

  Before he could ask what she meant, Hannah said, “Why not? It’s him, isn’t it?”

  Falconer wheeled about. “How do you manage to sneak up on a body like that?”

  Hannah smiled proudly. “Mama says I can surprise the sparrows when I have a mind.” She held out a rolled sheet of paper. “Look!”

  “What do you have there?”

  “Nothing,” Serafina hurried to reply, reaching to intercept Hannah’s surprise. “It’s nothing. Hannah, you mustn’t—”

  “Serafina is an artist! Mama says she’s not seen anything finer in any gallery!”

  Serafina looked horrified. “You showed this to Mrs. Powers?”

  “You didn’t tell me not to.”

  “But . . . you . . . you . . .” Serafina’s face was scarlet.

  Falconer took the rolled-up sheet and offered it to Serafina. “I won’t look if it distresses you.”

  She hesitated a moment, then whispered, “You may look.”

  Slowly he unrolled the sheet. What he saw left him turned to stone.

  Hannah danced in place. “There! Did I not say it? She’s an artist!”

  Falconer was looking at a man who was both himself and someone far finer. The drawing showed him bowed over his hands, clenching the back of the pew. He was praying with a calm fervor and singular intensity. The drawing was shaded in a manner that gave the impression of one removed from the earth.

  “There is no scar,” he said numbly.

  “I did not see it,” Serafina replied simply. “Not then.”

  Gareth Powers appeared in the doorway and cleared his throat. “Falconer, excellent. I hoped that was your voice I heard.”

  Swiftly he rolled up the parchment. “Sir.”

  “Lord Drescott’s guests are upstairs. Could you join us, please?”

  “Certainly.”

  Erica Powers stepped into the doorway beside her husband. “Would you two please join me in the back room?” she said to her daughter and Serafina.

  When the trio had departed, Gareth said, “This way, Falconer.”

  Gareth was as somber as Falconer had ever seen him as they made their way into the apartment’s parlor. “Might I have the honor of introducing Lord Sedgwick and Henry Carlyle,” Gareth started. “This is the gentleman we have been telling you about. John Falconer, late of Trinidad and Grenada.”

  Sedgwick was a bulky man, big-boned and carrying more weight than he probably should. But his features held a cheery glow, and his eyes were burnished with a resolute intelligence. “I must rise and shake your hand, sir. Well done, I say. Saving the young girl Hannah has made you my friend for life.”

  “Saved her twice,” Gareth added.

  “Yet once it was from a danger I brought upon her myself,” Falconer noted.

  Sedgwick moved with motions as great as his form. The gold watch chain that crossed his ample middle shimmered in the light as he disagreed. “Stuff and nonsense. You saved her. That’s the issue here, not who’s at fault. For we are all partly to blame, if you want to come right down to it. Anyone who dares stand in defiance of these scallywags. Is that not the truth?”

  “That’s all very well and good, but it doesn’t bring us any closer to a workable solution,” said the second man, Carlyle, who was the exact opposite of Sedgwick. Carlyle was a dry man, little more than skin over bones. He was dressed in a brown serge suit that hung upon his frame. Even his voice was a dry rasping murmur. “We are in danger of losing everything.”

  “A mere setback,” Sedgwick objected, steering Falconer across the room. “Seat yourself here by my side, my good sir.”

  “It is not a setback, and you know it. Gareth, tell your man what we face.”

  “John Falconer is his own man, as I have repeatedly said.”

  Carlyle drifted a hand through the air before him. “Tell him, if you please.”

  “Very well.” Gareth turned to Falconer. “A vote has been set on Parliament’s calendar.”

  “About the slave issue?”

  “Just so. We expected to have a major battle on our hands, with the Crown and allies throwing up procedural barriers and delaying this vote for months.”

  “Years,” Carlyle said. “A generation and more.”

  “But they have permitted this vote to come forward with a minimum of fuss. We were surprised.”

  “Astonished,” Carlyle said. “Alarmed. Extremely concerned.”

  “Do hold your comments to yourself,” Sedgwick complained. “You asked Gareth to tell him, did you not?”

  Gareth continued. “Our two allies are here because they have polled the members. We stand to lose the vote.”

  “But they can vote again, can they not?” Falconer asked.

  Sedgwick blew out his cheeks, all bonhomie gone now. “Once a vote has gone against us, it would be dreadfully difficult to bring it forward again. Certainly not until after the next election.”

  “Longer,” Carlyle corrected. “Allies within our own party will see this as a difficult and dangerous course. Because those who vote with us this time will be attacked by the Crown’s supporters.”

  Falconer looked from one face to the next. “What of the information I have brought? Is this not enough?”

  Erica Powers had quietly entered the room and now spoke for the first time, in a tone as bitter as Falconer had heard. “Those who waver look for a reason not to help us.”

  “What we must have is hard evidence,” Gareth said. “Something that demonstrates a clear and indisputable link between the Crown and this trade.”

  “A finger upon the trigger,” Sedgwick agreed, studying Falconer intently.

  “I have given you all I have,” Falconer said.

  Gareth leaned forward, his elbows on his legs. “Will you testify before our allies?”

  “In Parliament?” Under other circumstances, Falconer would have fled the room. “I must warn you, I am not good with words.”

  “But hearing the news from a ma
n who carries the mark upon his face.” Sedgwick looked hopefully at his mate by the window. “Will that not carry the day?”

  Carlyle examined Falconer thoughtfully. “It may. Now that I have seen him, perhaps. But I fear those who are undecided will seek the safe course. They will say we exaggerate. They will say there is nothing hard and fast that shows slavery is indeed a recognized component of Crown commerce.”

  “If this ongoing traffic is merely a local affair,” Gareth explained to Falconer, “some will claim it is a matter for the navy. They will order sweeps. The fleet will be sent.”

  “And then the fleet will come back,” Erica said to her hands. “And the matter will be forgotten. And another generation of innocent people will suffer.”

  “That cannot happen,” Falconer declared. Fear’s clammy fist squeezed his insides, but he said, “I will do as you ask.”

  The rear bedroom was the apartment’s smallest chamber. There was scarcely room for the two of them, much less Erica when she returned. Erica stood before Serafina with the rolled paper in her hands. “I want you to give careful thought to what I have to say.”

  Serafina had never seen the woman look so grave. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Carefully she unrolled the sketch Serafina had done of Falconer. When Serafina started to protest, Erica held up one hand. “Wait, please. Hear me out. That is all I ask.”

  “I had not meant for anyone to see this.”

  “My daughter did not know. And I must tell you, I feel God’s hand was upon her action.”

  Hannah piped up, “Me?”

  “Shah, my dearest, listen well and remain silent. I will answer all your questions later.” To Serafina she went on, “I know artists. I know how difficult it is to release one’s hold on a work. I know this same reluctance when I must give my writings over to the printers, and I write mere pamphlets.”

  “Falconer has already seen my sketch.”

  “It is not Falconer I wish to show this to.” Erica reached into her pocket and came up with a folded paper. “Look at this, if you will.”

  Serafina gasped aloud over the picture on the Wanted poster. “This is not him!”

  “Indeed not.”

  “It looks as he does, but this—this man is evil!” “He is most certainly that.” Erica set the two pictures side by side. She pointed to the poster. “A man without God.” She then pointed at Serafina’s portrait. “A man who knows the Savior’s grace. A hundred thousand words could not say what is demonstrated by these two pictures laid side-by-side.”

  Serafina looked up. “I-I do not understand.”

  “We will be returning to London. As I have already told you, we want you to travel with us. I want you to do two things. First, let me publish this portrait of yours, right alongside the Wanted poster. The two together.”

  “No, please.”

  “Pray about this. I can ask for nothing more.” When Serafina did not protest further, she continued, “Then, if you feel it is the right thing to do, speak with Falconer. Ask him to describe for you scenes from his past. Images that will speak as clearly as this portrait here of the life he knew.” Erica studied Serafina’s face, as though seeking to determine whether she was strong enough. Then she added, “The life he knew as a slaver.”

  “No.” Falconer expelled the word like breath punched from his body. Serafina’s request struck him like a blow. “I cannot do what you ask.”

  “It is not I who ask, John Falconer. It is Mrs. Powers.”

  “If she knew what it was she requested, she would never have uttered the words.” A bead of sweat worked its way down his spine. The thought of describing his vile experiences to this young woman left him nauseated. “Most certainly not.”

  Serafina searched his face, her gaze filled with both sadness and a remarkable calm. “Mrs. Powers would like to use my drawing of you as well.”

  “Of me? In their pamphlet? Lass, I can’t . . .”

  “I said the very same thing. But she asked me to pray. Which I will. Yet even now I know the answer. How am I to refuse these people? She thinks this may help.”

  “I can’t imagine how that would be possible.” Falconer wiped his forehead.

  “Nor I. But I trust her. And Mr. Powers. And you.”

  He struggled to find some way to tell her of the shame the request drew forth, but the air remained caught in his throat.

  She touched his arm. A gentle contact, as soft as her voice. “I have caused you distress, John Falconer. I am sorry.”

  “It is not you, lass.”

  “I have made you remember pain. I know . . .” She dropped her hand along with her eyes. “Will you do as Mrs. Powers asked, and pray?”

  “Aye.” Falconer knew he would give this young woman anything she asked. “Aye.”

  Chapter 24

  Toward dawn Falconer finally gave up on sleep. Though he was exhausted, thoughts of the coming days and what was being asked of him blasted apart his fitful dreams. He lit a candle and tried to read the Scriptures, but the words passed before his eyes in a meaningless blur. He knelt at the side of his bed and began to pray. Yet even here he felt trapped and unable to force through what he wished to ask for. His new allies needed him to speak to the wavering members of Parliament. He could see how critical this need was every time he glanced at their faces. He had heard the earnest appeal and knew they were counting on him. How could he ask for this cup to pass from him? Who else could take his place? So he could not pray as he wanted. He prayed instead for strength, enough in fact to resist the gnawing terror.

  And fell asleep there upon his knees.

  When he awoke, sunlight fell full upon his face. Falconer groaned as he pushed himself to his feet. His knees ached abominably. And yet he had a sense of a miraculous freedom. He could not recall the last time he had awakened without the choking noose of night terrors still wrapped about him.

  He bent and stretched until the pain lessened and feeling returned to his feet. Then he prayed again, only this time standing upright. Fear over the coming days was still with him. Yet now it was tempered by the certainty that he did not go forward alone.

  Once more there was a sense of being unable to frame proper words. Falconer was not particularly troubled by this. Instead, he merely took pleasure in seeing a new day without the night shadows darkening his vision. He prayed his thanksgiving for this different sort of awakening.

  It was then that the idea came to him. Full blown and utterly clear.

  Falconer dressed and stumbled his way down the stairway. Daniel’s high-backed chair leaned upon the door. A bedroll was stored in the corner of the landing, for Daniel had opted to sleep that night with his bulk guarding the only entrance to the apartment.

  Daniel frowned. “Why are you limping?”

  “I fell asleep at my prayers,” Falconer confessed. “I was on my knees for hours.”

  “That would certainly do it.” Daniel did not seem surprised. “There’s tea still, but it’s cold by now,” he said, motioning at his breakfast tray.

  “Cold tea will suit me fine.”

  Daniel plunked his chair legs to the floor. He cleaned his own mug with the towel covering the tray, then poured it full. “Here you go.”

  “I am obliged.” Falconer finished the mug in a few gulps, then asked, “Where are the two guests from Parliament?”

  “Sedgwick has been here since first light. They’re hard at work on the pamphlet. Haven’t seen the narrow gent this morning.” Daniel cocked his head to one side. “Something is up with you.”

  “I have an idea. A risky one.”

  “Most good ideas are.” He sat up straighter. “I’m your man.”

  Falconer blinked in surprise. “Don’t you want to know what I’m about?”

  “What you see before you is a foot soldier in God’s battle. Always have been, always will be. I’ve learned it’s more important to trust the man than to know all the steps ahead.” He rose to his feet. “The major says he trusts you with his life. T
hat’s good enough for me. Now tell me what needs doing.”

  Falconer breathed deeply. His growing sense of rightness was as strong as the risk ahead. “Ask Serafina to join us. Then go and find the narrow-faced man.”

  Serafina sat upon the floor next to Hannah. They used a low table as a drawing board, with two pieces of parchment set side-by-side. “I always find the best way to begin sketching a person is with the eyes. Here, I will make a nose for you in the middle of the page—that will give you a point of reference.”

  Hannah bent over her paper when Serafina was done. “Mama says when a person loves you, you can see right down into their soul.”

  “Your mother is very wise.”

  “Daddy says she’s the smartest person he has ever met. Smarter even than William Wilberforce.” Hannah leaned back and studied her work. “These are dreadful eyes.”

  “Well, perhaps it would be better if you placed both of them on the same level.”

  “One of them is down where the mouth goes.” Hannah giggled. “I won’t ever show this to Falconer.”

  “Is that whom you wanted to draw?”

  “Yes.” She bent back over the page. “He’s ever so handsome. And when he looks at you, his whole face glows.”

  “Here, let’s start over with another nose up here.” Serafina’s hair was pulled back in a bow, but she hoped the tendrils around her face hid her blush.

  “When he prayed in church yesterday, I could feel it. Inside me. That sounds silly, doesn’t it?”

  “No. I don’t think that sounds silly at all. There. Your nose is finished. And I’ll make little curves here, see? These will form the lower lids for the eyes.”

  “You draw him.”

  “No, this is your page.” Though in truth Falconer’s gaze was already staring up at her.

  Serafina moved back from the table. Not because of Falconer’s unfinished face. Instead, she recalled seeing Luca’s drawing of her for the very first time. Whatever had happened to that drawing? Lost now. Like so much else.

  Serafina had found herself praying much of the night. Events had come back to her in the form of segmented memories. She prayed and she slept, only to dream of yet another mistake and awaken to pray again. Several times when the anguish had become too great, she had thought of Falconer there in the night. The strength of the man, the force of his gaze, the solidity of his faith. Knowing he was nearby, that he protected her, that he prayed for her, left her able to pray for herself.