Masked by Moonlight

by Allie Pleiter

God above, he prayed, do not let her turn. I am not that strong.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “Who are you?” she whispered, her voice a mixture of thrill and fear.

  “An admirer,” he said, wanting to say much more. He had thought of a dozen things to say, a dozen heroic, romantic things, just like the Bandit would say, but they all fled his mind in the reality of the moment.

  “How did you know I wrote them?” she gasped.

  What? Matthew nearly stumbled in his shock. She wrote them? Georgia wrote the Bandit stories?

  Of course Georgia wrote them. Suddenly, it all made perfect sense. How could he not have seen that? How could he not have considered it? She wrote them. She was George Towers. It seemed almost obvious now.

  It was her words he’d read to her—that was why she’d reacted so. Her words he’d mocked, thinking they were Stuart’s ploys—and that was why it hurt her so. Her hero that he impersonated. The knowledge was so intimate, so terrifying, that he had trouble thinking clearly.

  “The Bandit knows many things,” he finally choked out. Such a ridiculous response. Then again, he was so stunned, he was lucky to have remembered to speak in an accent at all, much less wax eloquent under the circumstances.

  She wrote them. She was George.

  Leave it to Georgia Waterhouse to take his surprise for her and send it back upon himself threefold.

  She wrote the Bandit.

  He was at a complete loss.

  “Will I ever know who you are?” she asked breathlessly.

  He thought his heart would split open if he stayed a second longer. He must get out of there as fast as possible. He whispered, “God bless you, Georgia Waterhouse. Good night and good Easter,” and backed away.

  Stuart could not have been more surprised when Georgia told him of Matthew Covington’s newfound faith.

  “Covington?” Stuart sputtered over his coffee as they sat in the parlor after Easter dinner. “What have you done to him, the pair of you?”

  Georgia fingered the lilies from her birthday bouquet, still brilliant and fragrant in their vase by the window. “The pair of us?”

  “You and Bauers. Covington’s not even an American citizen. Evangelizing the tourists, are we now?”

  “God is no respecter of borders,” Georgia retorted, turning to face her brother. The strength in her own voice surprised her. “He’d even take you in, should you ever come to your senses.”

  Stuart shook his head. “I’m thinking it’s Covington who needs to come to his senses.”

  “Stuart,” she chided. Tonight she found she could no longer endure his insults to her faith. “That’s enough of that.”

  He looked up at her. When she stared at him, he pursed his lips and returned to his coffee without another word.

  He had complied.

  Normally, when Stuart went too far—which was almost always—she would swallow her feelings and silently endure. Today she stood her ground. And survived. She pulled in a deep breath of courage and pressed forward. “I’ve been thinking about your ball.”

  “Your ball,” he corrected.

  “No, it was your ball, Stuart. Given for me, I suppose. But I’ve decided to accept. I’d like you to have the ball for me, but I’d like to make a few changes.”

  That got her brother’s complete attention.

  “Such as?”

  “It will be a charity ball, raising money for Grace House. The First Annual Bandit’s Charity Ball. Every man who donates may come dressed as the Bandit. And you’ll see to it that every man donates, won’t you, Stuart?”

  “A hundred Bandits? Peach, are you serious?”

  She crossed her arms over her chest and went to stand before him. “Quite. It will be a sensation. You’ll gain loads of press, and I’ll gain enough money to ensure that Grace House never lacks for what it needs.” She held out her hand. “Do we have a bargain?”

  Stuart looked up. “What’s gotten into you?”

  “Do we have a bargain?”

  He turned the idea over in his mind for a moment, looking, she was sure, for the escape clause. There wasn’t one. Everyone got what they wanted in this bargain, including her. She had to admit it felt wonderful.

  “I believe we do.” He shook her hand.

  Georgia leaned down, brought his hand to her and kissed it. “Brilliant. I’ll have the list of things you need to do on your desk by tomorrow morning. How many waltzes are there in the Gilbert and Sullivan works, anyway?”

  He gazed at her, mouth agape. “I don’t know,” he said slowly.

  “Really? I was sure you would. Well, we’d best find out so we can give the list to the orchestra this week.”

  “Waltzes.”

  “Yes, Stuart, waltzes. Lots of them. They’re my favorite. And red roses. Only red roses. But with white ribbons, of course. Yards and yards of white ribbons.”

  “Georgia,” her brother said, furrowing his brow, “are you ill?”

  “Not at all.” She smiled back at him. “I’m just plain wonderful.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Matthew found Reverend Bauers on Grace House’s front steps Monday morning, fixing the doorknob. “I need to speak with you,” he said, pulling the clergyman into the mission by his elbow.

  “Goodness,” chuckled the reverend, who barely had enough time to put aside his tools. “Would that all my converts were so enthusiastic. But I didn’t see you at Easter services.”

  “I had some matters to attend to.” Bauers frowned, but Matthew pressed on. “Things have just become a good deal more interesting…” he lowered his voice “…in the area of my ‘unique talents.’”

  The reverend gave him a surprised look and ushered him into his study.

  “I know the author of the Bandit episodes,” Matthew declared the moment the door was shut.

  “Stuart revealed himself to you? However did you accomplish that?”

  Matthew sat down in one of the study chairs. “I did no such thing. Georgia told me.”

  The reverend settled beside him. “I’d forgotten that you were speaking to her. Tell me, does she share your feelings?”

  “Bauers, she writes the Bandit. Georgia is George Towers.”

  “Georgia?” Bauers stared at him. “Georgia? She admitted such to you?”

  “She admitted such to him. I believe I startled it out of her—I don’t believe she planned to tell me—him.”

  Reverend Bauers leaned his elbows on his knees. With a heavy sigh, he dropped his head into his hand. “Covington, can you not see the terrible folly in all this?”

  “Georgia writes the Bandit.”

  “Georgia writes the Bandit. And you have just as much as lied to her. Despite your feelings for her, of which she knows nothing. No, instead you have directed her attentions to an imaginary man who just happens to be you.” The reverend looked up at him. “Yes, I am surprised. I had not known Georgia had such talents, nor did I suspect she held such sway over Stuart. But my surprise pales against my concern for what you are doing. Look, she is due here within the hour. I will arrange for you to be uninterrupted in the garden. Tell her, son, and do the right thing.”

  “I cannot.”

  “You could, but you will not.” Bauers stood up. “You would if you really cared for her at all.”

  A storm brewed in the back of Matthew’s throat. “I care too much for her. I care too much to encourage her where there is no future.”

  “After all you have seen this past week, how can you say that? Who knows what God has planned? And yet you would deceive her into caring for an illusion?” The clergyman pointed a finger at him. “You have poached off her imagination, that’s what you have done. Can you live with that?”

  Matthew would never have believed he’d need to quash the urge to punch a member of the clergy. He’d chosen an unorthodox path with Georgia, he was well aware of that. But it was his choice to make. He could not share his future with Georgia. He would not wrench her away from her home. Was the
Bandit’s visit deceit? Of course it was, and some part of him ached for what he had done. But it was overthrown by his ache to be near her. For that gasp she’d made when she understood the Bandit was behind her. Matthew hadn’t even realized how much until that moment. But it could not be. “Now look here, Bauers…” he growled.

  A knock hushed him. “Gentlemen?” Georgia’s voice called from behind the study door. “Reverend Bauers?”

  Bauers opened the door.

  “I heard voices raised,” she continued, stepping into the room. “You two arguing? What on earth could bring you to that?”

  “We were…debating a course of action,” the reverend said, throwing a cold glare at Matthew.

  She tugged on the ribbon that held her hat, and took it off. “Who won?”

  “It is as of yet undetermined,” Matthew said tersely.

  Matthew watched her face. He could practically read her decision to move forward despite whatever it was she thought she’d interrupted. There was a fascinating new boldness to her features. “Well, then,” she said, walking farther into the study, “I shall be happy to provide a very large and pleasant diversion.”

  “And what would that be?” Reverend Bauers asked.

  “Stuart is throwing a ball. A Bandit Ball, later this month. And I’ve convinced him to make it a charity event to support Grace House.”

  “A Bandit Ball?” Matthew repeated, the storm in his throat turning to a great lump. “This month?”

  “Two weeks from Saturday. Every man who donates can come dressed as the Black Bandit. It is at once publicity, philanthropy and a chance for our newfound hero to show himself among a bevy of admirers.”

  “What an extraordinary idea,” Reverend Bauers said, the strain in his voice almost hidden. “Miss Waterhouse, you and your brother outdo yourselves.”

  “It is mostly Stuart,” she said. “But in this case I am delighted to help matters along.”

  Lord, Heavenly Father, what have I done? Matthew wondered if God had not shown up in his life at precisely the right moment. Or precisely the wrong one. “Most extraordinary,” he said, at a loss for any other reply.

  “Mr. Covington, please tell me you will be able to attend.”

  It’s not as if I’ll need to find a costume, Matthew thought absurdly. “I can think of nothing more intriguing.” And to think he’d found sedating chickens complicated a mere week ago.

  “The door! I just remembered I left my tools on the front steps. Covington, would you mind helping Miss Waterhouse transport a few boxes of material down the street to the convent storeroom? I had hoped to help her myself, but…” Bauers gave a poorly rehearsed shrug and bolted from the study.

  Matthew shook his head after the less-than-subtle departure.

  “You and I seem to have an odd, flight-inducing effect on people,” Georgia said with a lopsided smile. “But I am glad for the chance to talk with you. Tell me, how are you? I can remember believing from my earliest years, but in some ways I envy the man or woman who comes to faith in the full awareness of adulthood. It must be an incredible experience.” She gazed at Matthew. “You looked as if someone had lit a firecracker inside you Friday night.”

  An apt metaphor. But more like a dozen explosives. “I can’t say I’ve sorted it out yet. Some things feel settled, others feel completely jumbled. I’m still the same man, and yet I’m not.” He knew it was unsafe territory, and yet he could not resist. “And how are you? How was your Easter?”

  She did not reply right away, but instead headed down the mission hallway. “I must confess I was feeling despondent of late.” She glanced at Matthew for a moment. “It is not always pleasant to be the ‘other Waterhouse.’ One feels small and unnoticed every now and then.”

  I could never ignore you, Matthew thought, but said nothing.

  “Several things on Easter drove me to a long time of prayer. I’ll not tire you with what they were. But I was reminded of all the souls who worked in obscurity, keeping their eye on God. Whom He sees. Sister Charlotte calls it ‘the audience of One.’ I’ve come to understand her now. It’s given me a strength of sorts, I suppose.” Georgia shook her head. “My goodness, I think I’ve rambled on, when you were so kind to ask. But it has been important to me, this awareness—oh, that’s not the word. But I—I’m not making any sense, am I?”

  Matthew felt a pang of remorse. Here he was, thinking he could craft an affirmation for her. She, in her wisdom, had gone looking for affirmation in the place where it truly mattered. How he flattered himself to think he’d brought that strength to her step. How God must laugh at his idiocies today. Matthew stared at her, thinking her so far above him that he could never hope to reach her level.

  “What you must think of me.” She blushed.

  You have no idea, Matthew mused.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Georgia was beyond distracted for the next week. The situation seemed to have gained momentum of its own accord. The Bandit had a voice now, and she could hear it when he spoke in her dialogue. How easily she could picture the tale Quinn had first told her. Had it truly happened? Had she not invented the Bandit, not crafted the legend, but merely stumbled onto it? Suddenly everything was twisting back on itself. There seemed only one way to untangle the mess: to see him again. To know who he was. And so the ball became her best opportunity. Stuart’s manipulation would be turned to her own design.

  That night, Georgia gave up the struggle to write a Bandit episode and wrote an open letter instead.

  “To our Black Bandit:

  You defend those who cannot defend themselves. You champion the cause of the oppressed and the victimized. You move among us, masked by moonlight, unseen yet not unknown. Unmet yet not unadmired. We wish to honor you. Stuart Waterhouse hosts a ball in your honor on next Saturday evening. Many men will come in your guise so that you may circulate without revealing your identity, if you so choose. Each will make charitable gifts for the honor of donning your costume. Come and let a city show you its respect, and remind us that each man can share in your calling.

  Until April 26, I remain your humble servant, George Towers. After that night, I hope many will have the honor of calling you friend.”

  If Stuart resisted running the installment, well, she’d just have to find a way to convince him. But oh, Lord, could you grant me another visit from him? Would that be too much to ask?

  Matthew waited in the terrace shadows even though he shouldn’t have.

  He knew he shouldn’t.

  God probably had tired of telling him that.

  He waited anyway. He knew Stuart was out tonight—he’d been invited to the same dinner himself—and Georgia was most certainly alone. She would come. Even if the note he’d secretly sent her earlier today had asked her to travel miles in the middle of the night, she would come. A corner of his mind wondered if she would go to such lengths for Matthew Covington instead of the Bandit but he hushed his thoughts.

  The latch on the French doors clicked and Georgia stepped out onto the terrace. She had dressed in darker tones tonight, a smartly cut dress with only a small bustle, in an indigo that matched the night, and a mesmerizing cascade of small pearl buttons that looked like stars against the night sky. The shade emphasized the luminous quality of her skin, and made her beauty seem that much more ethereal. Had she dressed for the meeting? Did she realize how beautiful she was, how fragile she looked standing there clutching her wrap about her shoulders?

  “Are you there?” she called in a voice just above a whisper.

  “Yes,” he replied from his place in the shadows, almost forgetting to alter his voice. She looked in his direction and he backed farther into the darkness.

  “Why do you alter your voice?” she asked.

  He paused a long time, struggling for an answer. “It is for the best.” He knew she expected him to drop the pretense when she identified it, but he did not. He could not.

  “Do I know you by day?” Her voice revealed a hint of frustration
. Matthew realized she was probably insulted that he retained his secret once she had disclosed hers. Had she assumed that was why he had called again? In order to show his face?

  “That is not a safe question to answer,” Matthew replied, admiring her persistence.

  She crushed a bit of her skirt in one delicate fist. “I wish to know who you are.”

  “That cannot be.”

  “Now or always?” she pressed. Georgia took a half step toward him, forcing him to retreat farther into the bushes. She was disappointed, and it was his doing. Yet he found himself helpless to stop it. He had come for no nobler reason than the driving need to see her again. To hear the catch in her voice when she spoke to the Bandit, to note the look in her eyes when she strained to see him.

  “Did I create you? Or was it you that night saving Quinn from those thugs trying to steal his money?”

  How on earth should he answer that? “Both,” he said, opting for the strange truth.

  Georgia put her hands to her forehead. “I cannot do this anymore. George Towers is a lie.”

  He would not have her doubt her gifts because of his cowardice. “George Towers is an act of God. Can you not see that? Can you not see the role you’ve been given? The gifts you have to carry it out?”

  “No,” she replied in almost a gasp, “I cannot. It started out as a good idea, a lark, but now…No, I thought I could see that once, but not now.”

  “I can. I am what you made me.”

  “You are more than that.”

  He did not answer.

  “I want to know who you are. Why can you not tell me?”

  Tell her, part of him cried out, his chest feeling as though it were breaking open.

  You cannot. If you go to her, you will not be able to leave her, and you must leave her. England will not disappear. Your duty will not evaporate simply because you are in love.

  And he was in love. For all the good it did him. The Bandit could love and be loved—even if from afar—but Matthew Covington would be prisoner to sums and tallies and England.