Heirs of Acadia - 03 - The Noble Fugitive

by T. Davis Bunn

  By the time she returned, the porridge was done. “Take two of the flowered bowls there from the shelf. Give me half a portion only. I want you to eat the rest.”

  “I couldn’t possibly, Aunt Agatha. Please, I have no appetite.”

  “You are clearly starving, and your body needs nourishment. I can see your needs better than you. There’s some barley sugar up there, and cream in the larder. Put a good spoonful of each into your bowl. Now sit yourself down and let’s pray.”

  Agatha maneuvered herself slowly down into the chair at the head of the table. She leaned her cane against the neighboring chair, then reached over and took her niece’s hand with both of hers. “Oh dear Lord, oh heavenly Father, my friend through all the blows that life has cast my way, I beseech thee now, be with us.”

  Serafina’s head slowly rose. This seemed quite unlike her aunt. Someone so authoritative and stern, she would have expected her prayers to be as dry as old bones. A swift repetition of some formal prayer, perhaps a sign of the cross, and finish. Instead, her aunt’s entire face was one huge earnest crease, her pain evident now. And something more. Her fervor was an emotional plea that cracked both her resolve and her voice.

  “Oh dear Lord, thou hast seen me through very much,” the woman continued. “In the midst of my harshest days, my worst tragedies, my greatest fears, I have known thy peace. Surround us now, I pray. Grant us both the strength we do not have. Make me a better person, one able to aid this dear girl through her own harsh discoveries—”

  “No!” Serafina jerked her hand away and leaped to her feet, the chair clattering to the flagstones behind her.

  Agatha lifted her head with the same slow motion of every action. Her features calmed. But the light did not leave her eyes. Nor the quiet fervor from her voice. “Amen, and amen. Sit down, my child.”

  “I won’t . . . You can’t—”

  “First we shall eat this lovely bowl of porridge. Then we shall talk about what is and can’t be changed.”

  “Luca,” she whimpered.

  “The gentleman can wait. This meal cannot.”

  Serafina stared at her aunt, then looked down at the bowl and grimaced.

  “I will not be sharp with you. Not now.” Her aunt spoke in the manner of one reminding herself. “But we shall discuss nothing until your bowl is empty.”

  “You-you know something about Luca?”

  “It matters not whether we wait all day,” Agatha replied, folding her hands in her lap. She showed strength in her resolve, yet the sternness was not there. “But first you will eat.”

  Her entire being was so filled with dread that the porridge congealed into lead lumps she could hardly swallow. She lifted her eyes for quick glimpses of her aunt’s face, but the woman held to her word, remaining silent until Serafina had spooned up the last appalling bite.

  “Excellent. Set the bowls and pot to soak, would you?” Serafina could feel Agatha’s eyes upon her as she rose unsteadily and moved to the basin by the window. “My dear child, others may judge you, but I shall not. I want you to know that.”

  “W-what have you heard?”

  “Come over here and sit down.” Serafina’s trembling approach was met with a compassion that cracked the woman’s severe façade wide open. She reached over and once again took hold of Serafina’s hand. “I will tell you the news. But first I want to share something of myself. Will you hear me out?”

  Serafina could not find the strength to speak, nor even truly nod. Her aunt continued anyway. “I married a skilled craftsman from our village, a woodworker by trade. Jacob was one of four men brought over to redo a salon in Harrow Hall in the Florentine style. The lord of the manor liked his work so much he offered to become Jacob’s patron. I went to work as a lady in waiting, and eventually rose to manage the entire household staff. Our God never saw fit to grant us children, but still we were both happy with our lot and fulfilled in our marriage. Then last year Jacob was taken. . . .”

  Her entire body seized in a fierce tremor. She waited it out, as she clearly had many times before. She drew a ragged breath and continued. “The doctors have a variety of words for my ailment. But the truth is, my sorrow and my loss have congealed in my bones. I am not long for this earth, and I do not care. But I can no longer see to my own needs. The lord of the manor has assigned me a bedroom and parlor in the old house, where I shall remain for the rest of my days.”

  Agatha straightened herself with great effort. “In the midst of my worst despair and sorrow, I learned one valuable lesson. I can sit here this day, with my own end drawing close, and tell you this with utter certainty. The Lord is near. He will see you through. No matter what. Tell me that you hear my words.”

  Serafina tried to draw a breath. But she could only stare at her aunt in desperate appeal.

  Agatha released one hand and reached into her pocket. She paused with the page partly revealed, her face creased in indecision. Slowly she returned the paper to her pocket. She resumed her hold upon Serafina’s hand. “I received a letter from your mother. You may read it later. I had heard from her once before, after she discovered you with the man. . . .”

  Luca, she wanted to say. No, she wanted to scream the name. Shout it to the heavens. He is dead. Serafina could see it in her aunt’s eyes. Luca was gone. No. It was too terrible to bear. She wanted to cram her fists to her ears. But she could not move.

  “In this second letter, my dear Bettina wrote to say you had become so ill that she and your father feared you would be taken from them. They put off the journey to America as long as they could, which granted your father the time to hear back from his allies. He had sent word out, asking both within the military and elsewhere for information about your young man’s background.” Agatha’s grip tightened. “Luca was not as he seemed, my dear. He deceived you in the most horrible of manners.”

  He is alive. Luca lives. Yet there was no relief to be found in the realization. Instead Serafina shivered with a sudden chill.

  “Luca . . .” Agatha had to struggle with herself once more. “Luca is married.”

  No! She thought she had screamed it. For the wail inside her chest rose like a great shrieking wind. But her face was so frozen she could scarcely form a whisper. “No.”

  “It was confirmed by three trusted sources. Luca is married. He has two children.”

  “No.”

  “He was in the military at the time. He had gained some reputation as an artist, such that he was withdrawn from regimental duties. He painted portraits of many senior officers and even some of the royal court. He completed several ornamental scenes for palace halls. He was rumored to be involved in several scandals.”

  “It . . . it can’t be,” Serafina whimpered.

  “He seduced a general’s wife.” Agatha spoke with compassion, as though seeking to cushion the blows she was forcing herself to deliver. “Or so it was widely believed. Though again nothing was proven, this time the evidence was quite strong. But because his fellow officers wished to protect the general’s reputation, Luca was permitted to resign his commission. That is why there is no official scandal attached to his name, do you see? Luca’s wife returned to her family. Luca traveled around the country for two years, working on other commissions and leaving behind him a trail of smoldering gossip. There have been other women, my dear. He preys upon young women. That much is certain. Eventually he moved to Venice, which as you know has been largely cut off from Italy since becoming part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. There his reputation was unknown, and there he . . .”

  When Serafina rose to her feet, Agatha did not object. But she said, “I spent all of last night worrying over how best to tell you. In truth, there is no good way to impart such news. But I decided it was better for you to hear it from one who has loved you since before you were born.”

  Serafina stumbled across the room, not headed in any particular direction, only seeking to flee the words that struck her so brutally. Her hand found a latch. She fumbled and managed
to open the rear door. She flung it back and nearly fell down the steps and outside.

  The market was quite large for such a small village. The square was framed by a church, a priory, a coaching inn, a smithy, and a village green. There were perhaps thirty stalls in the market. They sold every manner of ware and produce, clearly serving a larger population than the village alone. A pair of pipers strolled back and forth in front of the inn, dancing in time to their melody while a girl of perhaps seven walked from table to table asking for alms. The inn’s patrons ate from a lamb shank that was turning slowly over a bed of coals set by the inn’s far side. Smoke from the cooking fire filled the square with fragrance.

  Serafina found an empty bench just beyond the village market. It was an odd place for a grieving woman to sit. But the noise sheltered her somewhat from the barrage of her thoughts, though the cooking odors made her feel nauseated.

  Luca was married. The words might as well have been drawn from an alien language. Her Luca. The man for whom she had sacrificed so much. Married.

  A pair of young men approached her. They jostled one another with rude courage as they spoke to her. Serafina heard the voices but could not make out the words. They laughed and tried to flirt with her.

  She lifted her gaze. Whatever it was they saw in her eyes was enough to silence them and turn them away.

  Luca. A father.

  Serafina buried her face in her hands. She had abandoned everything. She had lied. She had stolen. She had run away time and again. She had given up everything she owned, everything that held her to her place in the world. For a man who had lied to her from the start. For a man who did not love her. For a man who had . . .

  The horror of it all left her breathless.

  “All right. Enough of that.”

  Serafina lifted her head, not due to the words but the tone.

  “I won’t have a young lady in my charge sitting about in public like this. It won’t do at all.” Beryl Marcham set the heavy wicker basket down at Serafina’s feet. “Sit up straight. No, not like that. Look at me, girl. There should be a bolt of steel running from your hips straight up to your ears. Your spine is always straight as an arrow. That’s better. Good. Don’t ever let me see you bowed over. You are never to display such a manner in the great house, do you hear me? Never.”

  Mrs. Marcham settled herself upon the stone bench alongside Serafina. “Regard how I sit. This was the first lesson your aunt taught me, and one that has served me well. See how my chin is always at this angle, slightly elevated yet not lofty? This is proper for a woman in service to a grand manor. You must stand erect and yet remain subservient to all the masters and mistresses. Keep your eyes downcast when being addressed, but don’t cringe. Never cringe. The younger men of the household will see that as a weakness, as an opportunity.” She examined Serafina’s face. “Do you have any idea what I am speaking of?”

  In truth, Serafina had not made sense of the words at all. She gave her head a small shake.

  “You’re not mute.” The words were like cold water dashed in her face. “I shan’t tell you this again. You will address me aloud and end your sentence with ma’am or Mrs. Marcham.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I-I mean, no, I didn’t—”

  “That’s better. There is never a shame in admitting you don’t know something. Just as long as you listen carefully when instructed.” Her words had a practiced manner, as though spoken a hundred times before. “You strike me as an intelligent young woman.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Marcham.” Serafina could not believe this was happening. Her entire world was shattered and lying broken at her feet. Luca is married.

  “The duke’s only son is twenty-six and a wastrel. I would not speak so to my other staff, but you are Agatha’s niece, and you are also quite beautiful. So I must warn you that if you give him half a chance, he will make trouble for you.”

  She waited a moment, granting Serafina an opportunity to speak. When Serafina did not reply, she went on. “If there is trouble, no matter who is to blame, the staff will always be at fault. That is the way it is within a great house. So you must guard yourself well. Dress severely and plainly. Hide your hair and as much of your face as is practical. I will do my best to hold you to duties which keep you out of the public rooms.”

  “F-forgive me, ma’am. But I still don’t . . . You said duties?”

  She looked askance at Serafina. “Did your aunt tell you nothing?”

  “No, ma’am. That is . . .”

  “Agatha is gravely ill. It hurts me to say this, but I fear she is not long for this earth. She cannot take care of herself, particularly in that drafty old house of hers. So she is moving into rooms at the back of Harrow Hall. It’s the master’s wishes, and I agree. Agatha has any number of friends among the staff. She will be well cared for.”

  Serafina’s mind simply could not make sense of what she was hearing. The woman was kind enough, in the manner of one trained to be severe and standoffish. But to Serafina’s mind the words would simply not come together.

  The woman evidently saw Serafina’s confusion, for she grew exasperated. “Well, you can’t simply be allowed to remain on your own! Do you have funds?”

  “Money? N-no, not—”

  “There, you see? Arrangements must be made. Agatha trained me and raised me to where I am today, managing the staff of a great house. She has asked a favor. A great favor, I must tell you, for it is rare that a woman with no proper background or training would be taken on like this. I shall expect you promptly at four Monday afternoon to show you around the manor and explain your duties.”

  Mrs. Marcham rose to her feet, gathered up her basket, and started to leave. Then she turned back. “I don’t know what your difficulty is, young lady, and I don’t need to know. I will give you some advice that you would be wise to take to heart. There are any number of tragedies among the staff of a great house. I have my own. Agatha . . . well, you see how your aunt is.”

  She stopped once more, clearly wishing for some sort of response from Serafina. When the girl remained silent, Mrs. Marcham’s tone became more strident. “I hope you are listening carefully because I shan’t repeat myself. Life is often not how we would like it. Your duty is to get on with your work and not dwell upon whatever misery you might carry. And above all else, you are not to burden others with your woes. Nor are you to give any heed when someone else seeks to bend your ear. There are gossipers among the staff who would love nothing more than to tell you tales, and spread yours about for others to hear. Pay them no mind, do you understand? Work hard and work well. Time and work will cure you.”

  “No.” The one word was all she could manage.

  Beryl Marcham started to correct her, then stopped and changed course. “One final word. You mustn’t enter service thinking you shall be receiving special attention because of your aunt. And if you want to get along with the others, you will not seek out Agatha every time something does not go your way. The other staff will be watching, as shall I. They can make your life miserable, if they have a mind.” The woman hefted her basket. “You’d be well advised to work hard and learn the value of silence.”

  Serafina watched her march away. A number of the stallholders doffed their caps at Mrs. Marcham’s passage. She responded with brisk nods and occasionally a word or two. She did not glance back to where Serafina sat.

  Serafina found herself envying the woman and her unfeeling nature. If only she could cast aside her problems and live as though they did not matter.

  She sighed her way to her feet and started back toward her aunt’s house, moving unsteadily. No matter what Mrs. Marcham might have said, time would do nothing for her wounds.

  She felt a thousand years old.

  Chapter 14

  Shipboard life was as close to a home as Falconer ever expected to find upon this earth. Bound by water and froth and wind, enclosed by clouds and rain and sun, and surrounded by the close company of others who knew the sea’s moods. Yet not even thi
s could ease Falconer’s predawn wakings. Instead, the nightly terrors seemed to grow worse. That dawn he awakened with the cries of his friend Felix calling to him for help.

  He came aloft and released his worry and the nightmare’s last tendrils to the early morning air. His prayers came in the sweeping steadiness of the waves. He leaned upon the railing and watched the morning strengthen, and he prayed for Felix and his own mission, feeling the helplessness that only a strong man can truly know. Then he greeted the mate at the wheel and took a mug of sailor’s tea with the others coming on watch. Sheltering himself by the lee rail, he opened the Bible the curate had given to him soon after his first prayer of repentance.

  Falconer knew why his nightmare had cut more deeply than usual. The previous evening Gareth Powers had finally felt strong enough to speak with Falconer about his own quest. The two men had been astounded to find they shared a loathing of the slave trade and a determination to see it ended. Gareth had spoken of his writings, of the frustration they had known on both sides of the Atlantic in working against a tide of evil that seemed at times unstoppable. Falconer had listened and felt less alone than he had since departing Trinidad. Too soon, Gareth’s strength had waned, and Falconer had taken to his own bunk, thrilled by the knowledge that he had gained not just a new ally but another friend in Christ.

  The ship’s captain found him there by the lee rail. A storm-hardened man of graying years, his sea-borne coat was salt encrusted, his cap mildewed from countless seasons. “A good morning to you, John Falconer.”

  “Sir.” Falconer used his finger to mark his place and rose to his feet. Passengers were not expected to rise in the presence of officers, but a lifetime’s habit died hard.

  “Join me on the quarterdeck, if you have a mind.”

  “Honored, Captain.” The captain’s quarter was restricted to the senior officer on deck and those whom he specifically invited. Falconer slipped the Bible into his jacket pocket and took the steps three at a time.