The Night Angel

by T. Davis Bunn

  “If only it had been of wisdom and faith,” Falconer replied.

  Though the doctor held himself with military rigidity, he permitted himself a small smile. “I see the gentleman is as you described, Reginald.”

  “Rutherford is a trusted ally,” Reginald explained to the group.

  “If Mr. Langston vouches for you, sir,” Falconer said, “I could ask for no more.”

  “Forgive me,” Alessandro Gavi said. “I don’t understand. Is someone ill?”

  “I am about to become so,” Falconer said. “At least, as far as the rest of Washington is concerned.”

  Bettina Gavi exclaimed, “No, no, this won’t do! I won’t have my first guests in our new home arrive and launch into . . .” She turned to her daughter and spoke in Italian.

  Serafina translated, “Plans of worry and woe.”

  “Please,” her mother continued. “You will all be seated. Alessandro, no, at the crown.”

  “The word in English is head of the table, my dear.”

  “Lessons later. Now we are to eat, yes?” She gave Serafina swift instructions in Italian, then bustled away, calling out more as she left.

  The doctor said in genuine admiration, “I can only assume the Italian tongue has an extra muscle which our poor American mouths lack.”

  “Please, good doctor,” Serafina translated for her mother. “You will sit beside Mrs. Langston, and then Falconer, my mother, then Reginald, then me. Papa, would you please bring in another chair?” She hurried to set another place as her mother had instructed, then followed her back to the kitchen.

  Mary had returned with Gerald Rivens. Gerald was set to carving first bread and then meat. Mary helped carry plates and hid a smile at the sight of her suitor in a frilly apron, but not for long. She might not have understood Bettina Gavi’s rapid-fire Italian, but she most certainly caught the tone.

  The guests were swiftly served steaming plates of cannelloni alla primavera, rolled pasta filled with curds and grated cheese and steamed vegetables, topped with a spicy tomato sauce and fresh basil leaves. This was followed by slices of roast veal with potatoes that had been first boiled, then hand-coated in olive oil, rolled in fresh rosemary, and baked. Bettina played the true Italian hostess; she and her daughter remained seated for seconds only, continually refilling serving bowls and anticipating their guests’ every wish before they even spoke.

  Over dessert of fresh-made tiramisu, the doctor declared, “Madam, I have been transported to a land of nectar and heavenly manna. I now see why the Renaissance painters had so many smiling cherubs. They had just eaten at your ancestor’s table.”

  Bettina Gavi blushed yet replied as a proper Italian hostess would. “You cannot possibly mean it, sir. You have hardly touched a thing.”

  “On the contrary.” The doctor worked open the lowest button of his vest. “I have eaten so much I have rearranged the order of my internal organs.”

  She turned her attention to Reginald Langston and implored, “Surely you can manage one more small slice of dolce.”

  Reginald made great round eyes, ignored his wife’s frown, and allowed, “As we have a doctor on hand, perhaps just a small one.”

  “Reginald, you are making a spectacle of yourself,” Lillian murmured with a knowing look.

  “It is only proper,” Alessandro Gavi insisted as his wife hurried away with Reginald’s plate. “Nothing pleases an Italian hostess more than a guest who overindulges.”

  Lillian shook her head as she smiled. “Then my husband has no doubt sent your dear wife into raptures of delight.”

  They took coffee in the parlor, and for the first time Serafina had the impression of being in a place she could call home. When Gerald Rivens, at Falconer’s instructions, moved about closing the shutters to the gathering dusk, the sense of familiar comfort only increased. Falconer helped Mary set a fire and tossed in a double handful of cedar chips.

  The doctor took a deep breath and declared, “A perfect spice to finish a wonderful repast, madam. I commend you on your ability to make such a delightful home, one that contains the best of both our worlds.”

  Lillian Langston interjected, “The Gavis have been in this home only a few days.”

  “Impossible!”

  “We have become so comfortable only with the help of the Langstons,” Alessandro said. “Our gratitude to them knows no bounds.”

  “It was Falconer who found the home,” Serafina reminded them.

  “And Falconer who brought us together,” Reginald added.

  The doctor set his coffee cup aside. “Which brings us to the matter at hand, does it not?”

  Bettina rose from her chair. “Perhaps I should begin with the cleaning up. Serafina, would you join me?”

  “Mama, if you don’t mind, I would very much like to hear this.”

  Bettina looked quizzically at her husband, who nodded once. Reluctantly Bettina resumed her seat, casting uncertain glances at her daughter.

  “Perhaps you should tell us your plan,” Alessandro said to Falconer.

  “I leave tonight. The time of delay is ended.” Falconer turned to the doctor. “I asked Reginald to bring you in hopes that you might spread word among the diplomatic community that I have been taken seriously ill. And that you were worried enough to quarantine the entire family.”

  “I am loath to tell an outright lie, no matter how justified the cause.” Thoughtfully the doctor stroked the ends of his moustache. “Would you happen to suffer from any symptoms?”

  “I do sense a considerable tightening around my middle.”

  “Cholera,” the doctor said decisively. “You know, there was an outbreak just this past summer. One never can be too careful. Anything else?”

  Falconer kept his gaze firmly upon the doctor. “I have suffered recently from severe pains in the region of my heart.”

  “Scarlet fever. Or perhaps both. Oh my, yes, we must seal this family away immediately.”

  “I shall dispatch two more trusted men to ensure the quarantine is not broken,” Reginald declared. “And to see to any outside contact you might require.”

  “We are to be locked up?” Bettina demanded. “For how long?”

  All eyes turned toward Falconer.

  “It is unlikely the ruse can last more than a week.”

  “Seven days should be more than enough time to ensure the public’s safety,” the doctor agreed, rising to his feet. “I shall send my man within the hour to tack the quarantine notice to your door.”

  When the doctor had taken his leave, Falconer turned to Reginald. “Would you have any reason to send a carriage south at short notice?”

  Reginald did not need to ponder. “There is a lawyer in Richmond waiting my response over a land sale issue. I could order my attorney’s aide off this very night, with instructions that papers be delivered the instant the Richmond office opens.”

  Falconer rose and offered Reginald his hand. “It seems that I shall be even more in your debt.”

  “Debt?” Alessandro bounded to his feet. “You speak of debt? You protect my daughter, my family, my own life, you give us a home, you bring us new friends where we have none, you help me with my quest, you accept threats upon your life and limb?” He almost choked over his need to express the impossible. “You dare speak of debt?”

  Serafina watched how Falconer studied her father. Time crystallized as she realized what he was thinking. His feelings were etched upon his features, clear as ink upon fresh parchment. She knew her father’s response. At this point in time, Falconer knew Alessandro Gavi would refuse him nothing.

  She heard her mother’s breath catch in her throat. Serafina sensed her mother had just realized the same thing. Mother and daughter shared a long look.

  Lillian Langston must have noticed the change in the room’s atmosphere, for she rose to her feet and said, “Come, Reginald. We must be off.”

  “But, my dear, what of the plans to be made?”

  Falconer’s focus did not move
from Alessandro’s face as he said, “Have your carriage readied the hour before midnight. I will slip out the back and make my way to your stables. Tell the attorney’s apprentice that I am one of your servants, sent upon an urgent errand. Nothing more.”

  “But what—”

  “Reginald,” Lillian said, gripping her husband’s arm. “We are off.”

  Comprehension finally struck Alessandro Gavi hard. The blood drained from his features.

  Their farewells were perfunctory. Reginald Langston looked from one face to the other and swiftly followed his wife into the gathering dusk.

  When the door shut behind the Langstons, Falconer said simply, “We must speak.”

  Alessandro Gavi studied Falconer, as did Serafina, as did her mother. The three of them faced a man of unworldly determination. Never had Serafina seen such force unveiled. The man appeared made of steel, of stone, of some fire-hardened substance beyond the ken of mortal man.

  Alessandro looked at his wife. A silent communication passed between them. Bettina had the wide-eyed look of an animal fearing unseen talons. Alessandro sighed and led them back into the dining room. He seated himself at the head of the table, pushing aside the dessert dishes. When his wife reached to gather them, he raised one hand and then pointed her into the seat next to his own. Another hand signal, and Serafina was directed into the chair next to her mother. Alessandro watched Falconer round the table, his features resigned.

  Each click of the mantel clock seemed spaced hours apart. Serafina had ample time to examine her own heart. And the truth was, one simple thought filled her entire being. She would not disobey her parents again.

  Falconer did not seat himself. He gripped the back of the chair across from Bettina and asked, “You have the legal documents related to this mine business here in the house?”

  “Upstairs.” Her father’s voice was so hoarse it sounded like a different man.

  “How much gold do you have at hand?”

  “How much . . .” Alessandro struggled to make sense of the unexpected question. “Four hundred ducats. Perhaps five.”

  “Keep a hundred for yourself. I ask that you entrust me with the remainder. There is no telling what I will face upon the road. Gold may help to pave my way.”

  “Y-yes. Of course, whatever . . .” Alessandro’s voice failed him entirely.

  Falconer’s grip upon the chair back tightened. Serafina watched the knuckles bunch and whiten. She could see the pressure stretch the muscles of his forearms. The wood creaked beneath his grip.

  Yet when he spoke, his voice was soft as the rain now pelting the window. “Nathan Baring.”

  “W-what?” Alessandro stared at Falconer in bewilderment.

  “The young man who was here earlier.” The wood of the chair back groaned louder. Serafina’s mother winced at the sound and the sight of so much raw power. Still Falconer’s voice remained almost sibilant in its quiet. “The diplomat. The Christian.”

  “Yes. Of course. Your friend.”

  Falconer stared across the table at Serafina, and his dark eyes trapped and held her. She met his gaze because she had to. Why, she could not say. Though she did not understand what was occurring here, she knew one thing with unfailing certainty. Falconer would never harm her. I will obey.

  Falconer’s eyes were the first to drop, and his hold on the chair loosened. Serafina watched as he took a breath and struggled to speak.

  “I feel God’s hand upon this encounter,” Falconer finally said, his voice muffled by his emotion. “He comes from a merchant family. He is well educated. He is committed to his faith and his cause. I can say nothing more, because it is all I know. I feel he is someone who is well suited. . . .”

  Falconer turned and stumbled toward the rear of the house.

  “Wait!” Alessandro had to grasp the chair arms to force himself to his feet. “What of you?”

  Falconer had his hand on the doorjamb leading to the kitchen. But he did not turn back. “I am a man called to walk the path of peril so that others may live in safety.”

  Serafina found herself standing beside her father and crying. She wept without understanding, without regret, without joy. As though her tears were required simply to mark the end of one moment and the beginning of another.

  Alessandro’s own features struggled with confusion and relief and a desire to reach beyond himself and touch this man he did not understand. “What . . . what of payment?”

  Falconer opened the door and trod through the kitchen. “Whatever is fair.”

  “A fifth of the mine’s value! No, wait. A fourth!”

  The kitchen door had already closed shut behind him.

  Serafina hurried to the rear window. Her parents rushed to join her. Together they watched Falconer cross the back garden, his massive shoulders slumped inward and his footsteps faltering.

  Serafina traced one finger down the length of a raindrop upon the glass. She knew she had never observed a stronger man.

  Chapter 8

  An hour later Serafina had dried her face and decided she would be able to face Falconer without breaking down entirely. She wanted to be strong—especially now when he was leaving. She stepped to the small rear cottage and knocked on the door. A voice invited her in, and she found Gerald Rivens seated upon the stairs leading to the second floor.

  Gerald removed the small clay pipe from his mouth. “I’ll be going with him far as the first Richmond bridge, ma’am. See to it he gets off in safety and secret. The Langstons’ men have just arrived. They’re scouting around the perimeter now, getting a feel for the place. They’ll be taking the upstairs chamber here for themselves. One of us will be on duty at all times. Tell your parents that. You folks will be safe enough.”

  “Thank you, Gerald. Your words offer me great comfort.”

  “Thought they might.” He pointed at the closed door. “That man yonder, he’s a singular sort of fellow.”

  Serafina swallowed hard. All her determination seemed less than smoke in a storm. “Yes, he is.”

  If Gerald noticed her distress, he gave no sign. “Falconer calls me to live the Word without opening his mouth. Leaves me wishing I was a better man.”

  “You are very good indeed.” Her voice had turned so husky she scarcely recognized it. “A rare man, and a friend.”

  His pale eyes glimmered. “He’ll come home to us safe and sound, ma’am. Don’t you worry.”

  She wiped her eyes, tried hard for a smile, and asked Gerald if he could tell Falconer she was there. Gerald immediately rose to do her bidding.

  “Mama and I made you provisions,” she said when Falconer appeared in the doorway.

  “Then I shall feast indeed. Please give her my sincere thanks.” He bowed his head slightly in her direction but did not meet her gaze before turning back into his room. Serafina could see the satchel he was packing on the bed.

  “Papa has the papers and the gold ready for you in the front room,” she said, raising her voice and keeping it as steady as she could.

  “Gerald!” he called.

  “Here.”

  “Go fetch them, if you would. And then it’s probably time to leave for the Langstons.”

  The slender man left without another word.

  Serafina set the food beside his satchel. “What you said back there . . .”

  “Lass.”

  “Yes?”

  “We are friends, are we not?”

  “Yes.” Her heart wrenched with the bittersweet truth.

  “Then there is no need for you to say anything further. Is there?”

  Her voice emerged hoarse and low. “Promise me you will come home.”

  Falconer finally turned to look at her. And smiled. “Home. What a nice thing to say to a man who has wandered all his life long.”

  “Wherever you are, however far you travel, you must always remember that. Our home is yours, John Falconer. A room is always here for you, a place at the table, a . . .”

  They shared a long look. Tw
o friends with a world of memories and caring between them. Then he went back to packing his belongings. He looked to be carrying just one satchel. In went the Book. A single change of clothes. The food. A brace of pistols. Powder and shells. She pointed at the small metal box he put in next. “What is that?”

  “Percussion caps. For priming the pistols.” His movements were as easy as his speech. “New-fangled invention. But they speed up the loading process, so I suppose they might prove useful.”

  “Were you ever afraid of anything?”

  “What a question. Of course.”

  “I don’t believe it for a moment.”

  “I face fears every day.”

  He was silent for a long moment, and something in the downward cast to his shoulders left Serafina certain he was thinking of her. Which only left her more helpless and worried. “What was the first thing you were frightened of?”

  “The dark.”

  She laughed. “Just like any child.”

  “No, not really.” He straightened after fastening the satchel.

  “I told you once of my early days. How I was apprenticed to a ratter. When the rage was on him, he’d send me into cellars alone. I hated those times. Eight years old was too young to be sent into a cold, dark place, my hands too full of cages to even carry a light.”

  “Stop, please,” she whispered. “It is too terrible.”

  His gaze refocused upon her. “I have God now, you see. God and good friends. They see me through so much. Even this sad day of farewells and wishes I shall never share with another.”

  She was weeping so hard now she could hardly speak. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Shah, lass.” Hearing the soft word from him, so full of affection, only caused her to weep the more. She could see his hand reach for her, then fall back to his side. “Shall I tell you a secret?”

  She took a long moment to reply, “Only if it is a nice one.”

  “That it is, lass.” He leaned closer, and she could smell his masculine scent. “God spoke to me about you.”