He turned his attention fully to Serafina. “How . . . how do you know these things?”
“I speak merely of what I see.”
He held her gaze long enough for Bettina Gavi to clear her throat. Nathan turned back to the portrait of his mother and said, “It is truly magnificent. What a wonderful gift.”
“Thank you.” She understood his intent to bring several meanings to the word gift, and she appreciated his gratitude. She also knew that she was only at the beginning of her own exploration into capturing the mystery, the unseen essence, of each painting.
When she looked at the image of Eleanor Baring, she was satisfied.
Falconer and his motley band marched until darkness obscured the road. Falconer directed the first wagon down a narrow track, then hastened back to lead in the others. They carried no lights, and it would have been easy to miss the turning. The small clearing really was too cramped for them all, but the folks were too weary to care. They drank from a trickling stream, crouching like animals in the mud. Falconer had just four canteens, and his only bucket was the one he had taken from the disused farmhouse to water the horses. He eased the wagon traces but did not release the horses entirely, for what reason he did not know. When the horses had their noses deep in their oat bags, he sat on the ground, leaned against a wheel, ate a plate of something Joseph put into his hand, drank his canteen dry, and dozed.
But not for long. He was jerked awake by a sound.
The clearing was packed with wagons and animals and people. The horses shook their heads and jangled their traces, and the group slept wherever they had finished their meal. The adults groaned or snored in their sleep while the children cried and whimpered. From the surrounding trees a hawk complained over having his hunting ground disturbed. It was impossible for Falconer to have heard the night warn him.
Nonetheless he knew he would sleep no more that night. He eased himself up slowly, his body complaining loudly. Intending to make a circuit of the clearing, he stopped when he found two pairs of eyes watching him.
Falconer murmured, “I must have been dreaming.”
Both Hattie and Joseph rose from the earth to stand beside him. Hattie asked, “Was it God talkin’ or the road?”
“I wish I knew.” Now that he was discussing it, he could take the sensation out and study it more carefully. “I have a feeling we’re being tracked.”
Joseph said, “I done had a creepy crawly feeling under my skin ever since I laid down.”
“Why didn’t you say something?”
The tall shadow shrugged. “Long as it was just me, it coulda been my tired bones talking.”
Hattie was already moving. “Up! Everybody, rise and praise God!” She picked her way over the supine bodies, clapping her hands and calling in her hoarse voice. “We got Glory ahead and the wolves behind!”
Somebody groaned, a child whimpered. But Hattie was prodding them now with her bare feet and clapping louder still. “Y’all been tired before, but never for a reason good as this!” Her clapping and shouting was joined by the horses’ whinnying. “We’re movin’ out now! We can all sleep once we’s safe in Glory!”
They marched on through the night into the chill of a dry dawn. Their journey continued through rising heat and thirst. They did not pause for a meal. They marched at a pace that would have made an army proud. Most adults walked to spare the horses, and some carried children. Even the horses seemed to catch wind of something more than dust and sunlight filling the trail ahead. They pulled the wagons with snorting impatience.
And as they marched, they sang.
They sang and they praised God. They sang and they spoke of Glory ahead. They chanted in time to their footsteps. One of them would talk for a while, of how Moses parted the Red Sea. Of how God stilled Abraham’s hand before the knife could plunge into his son. Of how God’s own Son came down to give them all a reason to keep marching on. On and on and on.
They did stop at every spring and creek and river. They drank along with the horses, then hands patted the horses’ flanks to turn them away from the water. Then they rejoined the trail. The endless, dusty, hot, weary trail.
Hattie’s voice had long since given out. But she could clap and walk. She did more than her share of both. Sometimes she would whisper to someone closest to her, and they would start another song for her.
The afternoon stretched out over endless time. Falconer had never known the sun to move so slowly. He had the impression they were drawing close. He could not be certain, for the Salem Trail was little more than a drovers’ route and had none of the milestones found on turnpikes. They crested a rise that seemed familiar. The valley descended to a bridge over a chuckling creek, where they all stopped for one more drink. He glanced over at Joseph, hoping the man would agree with him that they weren’t far off, but Joseph was walking like the horses, with his head hanging low. Though his arms hung at his sides, a child was clinging limpetlike to his neck. Falconer shifted the boy he carried and decided not to say anything for fear of raising false hopes.
Climbing that next ridge was very hard indeed.
Then they reached the crest. And there before him was the sweetest sight he had seen in many a day. Four valleys stretched out like fingers of a splayed hand. At the center nestled a village. Descending sunlight played over the orderly rooftops like the divine hand. The trails of smoke rising from the chimneys turned into gossamer pillars holding up heaven itself.
Hattie stepped up beside him. She spoke with a voice as low and cracked as an old man’s. “Is that it?”
“Salem,” Falconer agreed, his voice as dusty and fractured as hers. “We made it.”
She eased the child she was carrying down to the ground and clapped her hands over her head. “Y’all come on!” She meant to shout, but there was scarce little volume left. “We’re gonna sing now! Yes! We’re gonna enter Glory with praise on our lips!”
And so help them, that is exactly what they did. Even Emmett Reeves rose to his feet, standing upon the wagon seat to sing hoarsely with the others. The horses lifted their heads to the clamor.
Doors opened up and down that side of Salem, and villagers began filing out. The community sentries stepped into place like a military escort, and they were soon joined by more and more, all dressed in shades of gray and white and exuding welcome. Falconer sang along with his charges, too tired to feel embarrassed at his lack of musical ability. The afternoon was too fine to be silent.
A familiar form came racing up the trail toward them. Falconer slipped the child he carried to another pair of hands and bent over to accept the boy’s embrace. He lifted him up and breathed in the wonder of this clean slight form whose arms held such an intense comfort as they wrapped around his neck.
Chapter 26
They filled the four stables on that side of town and spilled out into the pasture that linked them. Falconer stretched out beneath a pecan tree that had just begun sprouting its leaves. A pair of dogwoods proclaimed in white-clad splendor that spring had arrived and all was well. Falconer dozed and woke to find Matt playing a game of mumblety-peg with three darker-skinned children. Women tended a savory-smelling kettle on a big open fire. Others walked among the still forms, offering mugs of cider and fresh-baked bread. Ada stood to one side, speaking with the pastor and two men Falconer did not recognize. Beyond the fence was gathered what appeared to be the entire village. He dozed off again.
The next time he awoke, it was to find Matt seated beside him eating from a tin plate. “Mama said I could stay as long as I didn’t bother you.”
“You’re not bothering me at all.” Falconer reached over and tousled the boy’s hair. “I missed you, lad.”
Matt’s smile outshone the lingering sunset. “Shall I bring you a plate too?”
“Heap it high. I’ve been hungry for weeks, it feels like.”
As the boy raced off, a voice behind him said, “You shouldn’t tempt him so, John Falconer. He will pile the food on higher than his head.”
�
��Greetings, Ada.” He rose to his feet, then noticed the pastor standing beside her. “Excuse me, I mean, Mrs. Hart.”
She made no move toward him, but her eyes were welcoming. “You have been busy, John Falconer.”
“They are good folks,” he said simply, wishing he could express the tumult that rose in his chest at the sight of her.
“Indeed, they say the same of you,” the pastor said, stepping forward and offering his hand. “You are welcome, Mr. Falconer.”
“Thank you, sir. That means a great deal to me.”
“How many did you bring to us this time?”
“Forty-nine.”
The pastor’s beard trailed across his dark coat as he shook his head. “That is a larger group than we normally handle in an entire summer.”
“We shall manage,” Ada said comfortably.
“Yes, well, I suppose we shall have to. We certainly can’t turn them away.” The pastor’s gaze was hesitant. “Do you intend to carry on with more such rescues, Mr. Falconer?”
“If you will permit me.”
He blew out his cheeks. “I can scarcely say no, can I now?”
“Indeed not,” Ada said, her gaze still warming Falconer’s bones.
“I’ve taken ownership of a farm north of here,” Falconer said. “You may use it if you wish.”
Ada said archly, “I thought you said you did not care to reside in these parts, John Falconer.”
“I said merely that I was a stranger to this green and pleasant land, ma’am.” He kept his eyes safely upon the pastor. “But the farm was never intended for my use.”
“No?” the pastor asked.
“Not for farming, that is. I wouldn’t know the first thing about that profession, honorable as it is. I just hoped it might be of use in freeing more slaves.”
“Our own efforts have been hindered since the loss of Ada’s husband, may God keep his soul in eternal peace.” The pastor looked from one face to the other, then continued in a reflective tone, “There are other ways to help the cause of freedom than driving yourself to exhaustion, Mr. Falconer.”
When the pastor had moved away, Ada said quietly, “I-I am glad to see you back, John Falconer. I and my son, as you have noticed.” They exchanged smiles, then she continued, “How long will you be able to stay?”
“I must take charge of this farm before the week’s end or lose my deposit.”
“So when must you leave?” she asked again.
Before he could answer, Joseph came limping over. “Look yonder to the ridgeline.”
Falconer squinted to where the westering sun made slanted blades of the forest tree line. There upon the high ridge stood a cluster of riders. Three of them held long-bore muskets in the hands not holding the reins.
“I count nine of them,” Emmett Reeves said, coming up to his other side.
“They don’t seem to be making any move toward us,” Falconer said.
“No, they wouldn’t. Not if they’re who I think they are.”
Ada asked the lawyer, “Who do you suspect them to be, sir?”
Reeves did not answer her directly. Instead he said to Falconer, “It appears you were right in driving us to exhaustion.”
Falconer studied the ridge until the silhouettes wheeled about and disappeared. He looked over to see Ada watching him with deep concern.
Falconer said to Ada, “I must leave the day after tomorrow.”
“But you need rest—”
“The road calls me,” he said, pointing to the men no longer visible and the setting sun, then waving his arm toward his charges, now safe in Glory.
On the morn, Serafina returned to her work at first light. She paused for a Bible study with Mary and Gerald, the three of them lingering long over prayers for Falconer’s safekeeping. Then her father appeared in his formal court attire, for he had received an official summons from the Austrian legate. As the invitation had been both public and formal, no one sensed any danger. Even so, her father was rather nervous. He had spent hours during a sleepless night trying to fathom the purpose behind such a summons.
Nathan returned later that morning. Serafina had offered to let him take the portrait of his mother the day before, but Nathan had seen her unease and said he would wait. He did not say that the portrait looked finished to his eye. Nor did he press her in any way. His last words upon departure were the same as those he spoke upon arrival. “I couldn’t possibly take the painting until you were satisfied it was ready for outside viewing, Miss Gavi.”
Serafina found herself wanting to confess her quandary. About a mystery she could not truly describe. About the challenge she felt to look beyond each work and see something else.
Instead, she asked, “Would you like to see my other works?”
Nathan glanced at Bettina Gavi, and they both registered surprise. “I would be most honored.”
“One moment, please.” Serafina returned to the dining room and began setting up her easels in a curving line that stretched across the entire room. She lifted the paintings one by one from their positions facing the wall before she took a step back and surveyed her work. Finally she called, “You may enter now.”
Not even her mother had seen them all at once. Serafina fitted herself into the far corner and saw her two guests move down the line of easels. Yes, the paintings were both good and complete. If only . . .
Mary brought them tea, and they sipped standing before the easels. So it was that Alessandro Gavi found them when he returned, his two ladies and Nathan Baring, cups in hand, viewing the room filled with Serafina’s paintings.
“There you are.” Alessandro Gavi spoke from the doorway. “My dears, I have someone who wishes a word with our daughter.”
“I am still in my day dress, Papa,” Serafina said.
“I am sure the gentleman will understand.” He nodded a greeting to Nathan. “Mr. Baring, how good to see you, sir.”
“Good day to you, Mr. Gavi.” Nathan’s attention now focused upon the man entering behind Alessandro. “And to you as well, Herr Lockheim.”
“Ah. Mr. Baring.” Following her father was the legate’s principal aide, whom Serafina recognized from her time at the palace. Dressed in full court regalia, his wig was freshly powdered. The polished gold buckles on his heeled shoes matched the brocade woven down both sides of his coat. He attempted to look down at Baring, though the American diplomat stood a full six inches taller. “The legate shall find your choice of company most interesting, Signor Gavi.”
“Yes, well.” Alessandro gestured to Serafina. “And this is my daughter.”
“Ah. The artist in her garret.” His patronizing tone was not lost on Serafina. “I shall have a look, if you please.”
“But, Papa—”
“Of course you are welcome, Herr Lockheim.” Alessandro gave his daughter a warning look.
“Thank you.” As he swept by the trio, he fitted a monocle into his right eye. He took his time over the sketches and charcoal drawings arranged on the side wall. “Most interesting. I detect a certain level of experimentation, shall we say, that I would not have expected in one so young.”
“Herr Lockheim studied art in Vienna,” Alessandro explained. “He is here on behalf—”
“Allow me to complete my inspection before we discuss it further, I beg you.”
“Of course, sir.” Alessandro gave a slight bow which the prince’s aide ignored.
Serafina felt resentment twisting her insides. But her father’s unspoken command kept her silent.
Her drawings were displayed by subject. First came the sketches of her parents, both together and then separate. Then was a long row of Nathan’s mother. After Serafina had begun work on the painting itself, she had returned to her sketchbook, working from memory, seeking the proper balance between the seen and unseen. The sketches showed a woman regressing in age from someone in the twilight of her life to fresh young maiden.
Drawings of the infant were even more varied, for they began in death and
ended in laughter. Serafina had come downstairs several nights after the house was asleep, lured to her sketchpad by half-remembered dream images. Of a child who laughed and lived and gave joy to a family made whole once more. Of a place where no infant died early. Of a realm where she had a family of her own. And children. Where no Venetian liar had stolen her heart. Where all was well. Some of those drawings she had done with a feverish intensity, knowing she could never remake the world no matter how hard she struggled. Yet attempting it in her drawing just the same.
The fourth set of drawings belonged to her latest painting, the one she was just now in the process of completing. Gerald Rivens had asked Mary to wed, and Mary had agreed. Serafina was painting their portrait as a wedding gift. The mystery there had been the simplest thus far to determine. Her sketches showed a couple deeply in love. Their joy was so powerful it shone from the earliest drawings. Serafina watched as the legate’s representative spent the most amount of time poring over these. In her second rendition of Gerald and Mary, she had drawn a hand. One appearing from a cloud-flecked sky, reaching down to bless the couple. In later drawings the hand became more ethereal, until it was a mere suggestion, seen and yet nearly invisible.
Herr Lockheim looked thoughtfully at Serafina, then stepped around to the easels and examined the paintings. The only sound in the chamber was birdsong and the ticking mantel clock.
Finally the man demanded, “Why watercolors, Miss Gavi?”
“It is my chosen medium.”
“No other reason?”
“I wished to focus upon the faces. Upon the expression.”
“And you have left the background utterly empty. Most interesting.”
She fumbled with an explanation, for it was the first time she had sought to express her thinking on this. “I sought to give life to the person, both exterior and interior. The surroundings were unimportant.”
“Centuries of painters might disagree, Miss Gavi.” For once Herr Lockheim’s voice did not carry scorn. “But for an artist of such young years, I confess to seeing some promise in your work.”
The Night Angel Page 25