Heirs of Acadia - 03 - The Noble Fugitive

by T. Davis Bunn

  “I told you because I want you to know that I understand what your nights are like.”

  She heard Falconer’s words and she also heard the unspoken message behind them. It was as though her own heart could ask questions and hear Falconer’s heart give a silent response. And she heard her own heart speak silently in reply. I have nothing to give you. My heart is shattered and empty. I cannot love. Perhaps I never shall again.

  She lowered her face to her hands and wept with the abandon of one without future or hope.

  Falconer reached over and touched her, his hand merely resting upon her shoulder. Serafina felt the gentleness, and more. She could see a man who asked for nothing. She knew that he understood her wounded state. She recalled his talk upon the train and realized he had spoken as he did because he thought himself beneath her station. He loved her and knew it was futile, so he did his best to hide it away. He sought not to pressure, not to demand. Instead, he sought only to give. To protect, to shield, to comfort, to strengthen, to honor. He fought his own desires and wished only to give. Which only caused her to weep the harder.

  “I should not have spoken as I did. I am very sorry.”

  Serafina buried her face in her hands. She wanted to tell him that this was not why she wept, but her sobs would not allow her to draw sufficient breath. She did not even weep because of Luca. She wept because of how wrong she had been. She had known nothing of love. She had lied to herself . . . why? She had believed the lie because she had wanted to make her fantasy real. But love was not built upon fantasy. She saw that now, for the very first time. Love was built upon giving. And Luca had given nothing. He had sought only to take. But she had been enchanted by his lies and she had wanted to believe that her time for loving had come. And as a result she had given her love to a man who deserved nothing.

  Finally her weeping calmed. When she sat up again, Falconer rose and walked to the stove. He took a clean dishtowel and poured a bit of hot water from the kettle. He walked back to the table and handed it to her.

  Serafina wiped her face, then dried it with the towel’s edge. “May I ask how old you are?”

  “Twenty-nine.”

  “When will you be thirty?”

  His dark eyes did not reflect the candle so much as hold a golden light all their own. “I can’t say for certain. I don’t know in which month I was born. Only that it was winter.”

  She managed to stifle new tears before they formed. Her breath was ragged and her throat felt raw. But still she spoke. “I have had a dream since childhood of running through the streets of my city. Only they are streets I have never seen before. I am trying to go home. But I cannot find my way. I cry out but no one hears me. And now . . .”

  When she began to tremble, Falconer said softly, “You don’t need to tell me this.”

  But she did. “Now there is an animal that is after me. I am a little child in the dream. Always a child, and I cannot run fast enough to escape this beast. I know the beast will devour me. Every street I turn into, it seems that the animal is just ahead of me. Ahead, behind, and to every side. Then I turn a corner, and I hear a growl. Just as it attacks, I wake up.”

  A wet dawn was spreading beyond rain-streaked windows. Falconer wet his fingertips and stifled the candle. “Would you like more tea?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  He crossed to the stove and spoke with his back to her. “Perhaps some people in this world are more vulnerable to the beast of the night. I can only speak for myself. I have done things that do not bear thinking about. If this is my fate, there is little I can do to argue otherwise.”

  Serafina did not so much nod in understanding as tremble with the weight of his words. I am not as strong as you, she wanted to say. But what she said was, “When I became ill, after . . .”

  Falconer returned to the table with her mug. “After your parents kept you from seeing your man.”

  “Yes.” Oh, how it seared to have him speak of Luca. How shamed she was to think of Luca’s supposed strength when faced with the reality of this good man. She forced herself to continue. “I entered a fever. It was with me for quite some time. Toward the end, it seemed to me as though the fever was alive. It was an animal, like the beast of my dream. And if I let myself stay weak, the beast would eat me, just as I feared would happen in my dream.”

  “None of us are strong enough to stay the course alone, lass.”

  “How strange those words sound,” she replied, “in the face of your own strength.”

  “All of us are weak in our own way. All of us need the power of God to help us through. So long as we steer our own course, we are blind. We create great wrongs and justify all we do in the name of selfish ambition.”

  Serafina nodded as she felt his words strip away the lies and lay her wounded spirit bare. She reached across then, as natural an action as any she had ever made, and rested her hand upon his. “You are such a good man, John Falconer.”

  He stared down at the hand upon his own. A look of abject sorrow took hold of his features.

  She understood. The dawn was nothing compared to the illumination that filled the kitchen. “You know that my heart has been broken. I have nothing to give you.”

  He nodded slowly. He did know.

  “It is a poor gift to offer,” she said. “But I could think of no greater honor, no finer gift, than to be able to call you my dearest friend.”

  Dim morning light gradually strengthened. The house was stirring. She knew their time was coming to a close. But one thing remained undone. “Would you please pray for me?” she asked softly.

  Falconer’s voice was softer now. “I pray for you daily.”

  “You heap one gift upon the other until they are beyond both measure and count.” She compressed herself in an effort to stop the tears. “What I meant was, would you pray for me now?”

  “With you, lass,” he corrected gently. “What you wish is for us to pray together, yes?”

  “Just so. Pray with me.” She smiled and knew her lips trembled slightly, and did not care. “Is that not a lovely thing to say?”

  They bowed their heads and Falconer spoke in his strong yet gentle manner. Yet in truth Serafina heard little beyond the sound of her own heart. And knew the gift of a calm that settled into her, an ability to look ahead with something more than sorrow and shame.

  When she lifted her head, she discovered that Erica Powers stood in the kitchen doorway, watching them with an expression that mirrored exactly the sentiment that filled Serafina’s heart.

  “Forgive me for disturbing,” Mrs. Powers said, addressing Falconer. “But I was wondering if you are ready.”

  He rose instantly to his feet. “I am.”

  “Ready?” Serafina looked from one to the other. “Ready for what?”

  Falconer’s features had resumed their sternness. “For the fulfillment of my quest.”

  “Just so.” Yet the gentle light did not depart from Erica’s features. She said to Serafina, “You are welcome to join us, if Falconer agrees.”

  Falconer’s solemnity only deepened. “Do you wish this?” he asked Serafina.

  “I want to help,” she replied, as certain of this as anything since the day she had run away. Perhaps long before. “If I am able, I want to help you all.”

  They worked through the morning, completing the pamphlet Erica had begun at Harrow Hall. Falconer sat in what had once been the great man’s study. He felt Wilberforce’s presence everywhere. Gareth lay upon the daybed where no doubt Wilberforce had once rested. Erica Powers led the questioning. There were several others who gathered with them around an oval table of polished cherry. Falconer sat with his papers and his maps spread out around him. Serafina was at the table’s far end, where she listened and watched in silence. An hour or so after they began, she opened a large sketchpad supplied by one of the others in the house and began to draw. She showed her work to no one.

  Toward the noon hour Lord Sedgwick arrived, moving with remarkable quietne
ss for such a big man. Falconer led them through all the information he had and all the questions he could not answer. Erica was gentle in her inquiries but very probing. By lunchtime Falconer felt drained of strength.

  Erica, however, was only beginning. She asked that all the others save Gareth and Serafina leave the room. Even Sedgwick did not remain. A pile of fresh pages were brought, and quill and ink. Several times over the course of the afternoon, she sent for Falconer. Always the task was the same. Erica’s pen scratched busily along the page as she asked him about one point or another of his story. Often she sought what she called color, details that would bring the story alive for the reader.

  Serafina moved to the chamber’s opposite corner. For Falconer, Erica’s questions were made more difficult and painful still by Serafina’s silent watchfulness. The questions not only brought Falconer back to the world he had sought to leave behind forever. They exposed the very depths of his immoral past. Yet he held nothing back. Falconer spoke to Gareth at these times, using his military voice, stern and emotionless. It was the only way he could mask the internal tumult, the pain of confession. Each time Erica thanked him, then returned to her writing. Falconer understood that she was not being cold in her dismissals. She was simply caught up in her task. Each time he left the room without glancing Serafina’s way yet knowing she watched him.

  Toward late afternoon the rains ended and the slate-gray heavens rolled back. The manor’s gardens shone as though painted with a translucent silver. Every window sparkled. Birdsong echoed through the house. Smiles beamed from almost every face. Falconer kept his sense of impending storm to himself and held himself ready for whatever else Erica needed.

  As the others began preparations for dinner, Serafina found him seated on a bench sheltered beneath a rose trellis that had not been trimmed in years. “May I speak with you?” she asked.

  “Of course.” He shifted over, making room for her on the bench.

  Serafina did not sit down. “I have something I wish for you to see. I want you to understand me very well, John Falconer. I have not shown this to anyone. I think it may be what Erica is after. But if you do not wish for this to be seen by others, I will tear it up and never speak of it again.”

  “Whatever are you speaking about, lass?”

  But she was not done. “Erica and Gareth showed me portraits of important people. They are from journals and newspapers and a few books. That is where the other faces come from. I want you to know that. I want you to understand—” She stopped abruptly, and from behind her back revealed a rolled sheet of paper. Serafina thrust her hand forward. “Here.”

  Slowly Falconer reached over and took the sheet. He unrolled it. And groaned.

  “Oh, I knew I should have done something else,” she said desperately. “I will do it now. There is still time if I hurry.”

  “No.” He did not realize he had moved at all, except that he could feel the wet earth against his knees.

  She had taken his dream, his nightmare, his burden of more than three years. And she had drawn it so well the image shrieked at him. The tremors running through his body and his hands caused the image to become even more lifelike.

  He was there upon the foredeck. But not as the captain. As the witness. Part of a crowd of people that included Sedgwick and Gareth and Erica and even Serafina herself. Others pulled the slaves out on the deck. The seamen performing this vile act were people he did not recognize, yet their faces were vividly drawn. A vast and dreadful storm raged all about the ship. Only there was one hint of light, a single tiny ray, that reached down and touched those who prayed upon the foredeck.

  Falconer held the drawing to his chest and wept.

  “Oh, forgive me, it was wrong, wrong!” Serafina was weeping also. “Please do not cry,” she begged. “Let me have it, I shall destroy it and no one will ever know. . . .”

  Falconer bent over so that her hands could not take the drawing from him. He could not recall ever having wept before. Certainly not as a man. Nor could he draw enough breath to speak to her now and explain. The image was not tragic. Rather, it provided release.

  He felt her hand touch his shoulder, and he wanted to explain. That he saw the truth in her drawing. That no longer was he among those who did the terrible deed. No longer was he counted as slaver and murderer and fiend. Instead, he stood upon the foredeck with those anointed by God. He, the least of men, was among the redeemed. He prayed. He struggled. He served.

  When he could draw a decent breath, he said, “You must give it to Erica.”

  “No. I couldn’t. You—”

  “Lass.” He stumbled in his effort to rise. He felt her hands steady him and made it to his feet. He wiped his face with his free hand. “Thank you.”

  “I don’t understand. . . . You believe this is good?”

  A robin settled upon the trellis overhead and filled the evening with song. “It is more than beautiful. It is a gift.”

  Serafina took a long breath.

  He unfurled the paper once more. “There is a goodness to feeling such a pain as this. I’ve said that poorly, but it’s all I know at this moment.”

  She watched him carefully. “I have seen the power your cause holds for you. The goodness that you have brought from the pain and the shadows. That is what I tried to draw.”

  “You saw it and used it both.” Falconer’s breath caught in his throat as he studied the drawing anew.

  “It does me such good to hear you say that.” She glanced toward the house. “Erica is waiting for me. Perhaps I should show her. That is, if you are certain.”

  “Aye, lass. She will know how to use it for the most good.” The sun rested upon the western treetops now, burnishing the tall grass and the empty fountain and the lichen-covered stones. Her face was illuminated by the soft glow, her eyes given depth and the promise of new life ahead. Falconer stared at her and knew he would never see anything quite so beautiful. “Serafina . . .”

  From within the house a bell sounded, the one that was traditionally used to summon a servant. In Wilberforce’s manor, however, it was used only to draw everyone to the dinner table.

  Falconer turned with her, not certain whether he was relieved or sorry that he had been interrupted.

  As they entered through the rear doors, she looked at him and said, “I do so like to hear you speak my name.”

  Chapter 28

  The next morning Falconer dressed with care. He took command of the bath while the rest of the Wilberforce household still slumbered, scrubbing his skin nearly raw. The previous day, Erica and two other women had selected the best of the clothing given to him by Reginald Langston. The items were now laid out upon his bed, cleaned and starched and folded. He combed his hair, oiled it in the seaman’s manner, and tied it back with a ribbon. He had neither stickpin nor cuff links. His dress was as severe as a uniform. As was his expression.

  He gave himself over to morning prayers, spending a long time on three things in particular. First, he asked for God to be at his right hand through the coming ordeal, and for words and for wisdom that were not his own.

  Second, he thanked God for a morning free of his nightmare. He did not take this as hope for the future. Falconer was unable to look further than the next few hours. But he did take the respite as a sign. God had cleared his mind for the coming affray. He was not alone. Of this he was certain.

  Third, he thanked God for the previous day’s conversation with Serafina. He took great heart from the woman and her words. He could not say precisely what had changed, nor did he wish to linger over such reflections. He was simply grateful for this new friend.

  For the moment, it was enough.

  He was not the first to enter the kitchen. People greeted him nervously and let him be. Falconer was aware of what they saw. He had seen his own reflection upon the eve of battle. He knew his eyes were as hard as agate, his face tightened into an expression boding danger.

  Serafina was seated in a cramped little alcove formed betw
een the food pantry and the dish cupboard. She had pulled over a chair, isolating her within the bustling kitchen. She was hunched slightly over her tea, her face ashen.

  Falconer walked over and lowered himself into her field of vision. She looked at him with troubled eyes. He asked so softly the words carried only to her. “The nightmare?”

  She responded with a small nod.

  He set her mug at her feet and took hold of her hands. “Two things. Are you listening?”

  She nodded a second time.

  “The first thing. It will pass. With time and patience and prayer. It will pass. Do you believe me?”

  “I want to.”

  “The second thing.” Falconer released her hands and rose to his full height, his full strength, his full resolve. Not caring about the eyes he felt upon them. Wanting only to will this fragile lady his strength. “You are not alone.”

  He felt a hand upon his shoulder but remained as he was until the color returned to Serafina’s face. Falconer then looked up at Erica Powers.

  She smiled tenderly at Serafina before saying to Falconer, “Come with me.”

  William Wilberforce’s private chamber stood opposite the kitchen and overlooked the rear garden, or would have if the drapes had not been drawn. Dawn cast a faint glimmer only, a trace of light framing the heavy velvet curtains. A pair of candles offered an island of soft light by the bed. With the door shut behind him, Falconer could hear nothing from the house. The room felt like a sanctuary, a haven built midway between earth and heaven.

  The figure in the bed was diminutive, his face made smaller by the bandages upon his eyes. One hand rested unmoving upon the cover. Gareth sat in a high-backed chair pulled up close to the bed. Spread upon the coverlet were half a score of pages. Erica’s words were set in type now, and the headlines shouted at Falconer as he crossed the carpeted floor. He saw his own name there in bold script. Directly beneath the headline were the two drawings of his face—one from the Wanted poster, the other from Serafina. Her drawing from the previous day illustrated another entire page.