Heirs of Acadia - 03 - The Noble Fugitive

by T. Davis Bunn

  Drescott blew out his cheeks and moaned, “I’m seriously in debt. Gambling.”

  “Who holds the reins?” Falconer lifted his voice a notch. “Who was it that sent you word?”

  “He’ll kill me if I say.”

  “But he’s not near to you now, is he. And which danger is closer? That’s what you need to think about.”

  Drescott licked his lips. He murmured, “Simon Bartholomew.”

  “The banker.”

  Drescott nodded.

  “He holds your promissory notes.”

  Drescott replied to the earth at his feet. “He threatened to ruin me if I didn’t help him with this.”

  Falconer turned to Daniel and said, “Bind him.”

  Panic rose fresh to his eyes. “B-but you said—”

  “That we wouldn’t hang you. And we won’t.” Falconer untied the noose as Daniel pulled the rope from the tree. Together they wound the rope around the trunk, lashing the young man tightly.

  “You can’t possibly intend to leave me here!”

  When they finished, Drescott was fastened from his knees to his chin. Falconer watched as Daniel tested the knots, then said, “I hate to think how many young women you’ve attacked like the lass here.”

  “B-but she’s a mere servant wench!”

  “Which makes your actions even more vile. I urge you to think long and hard upon your way of life. While there’s still time.” Falconer turned away. “We’re done here.”

  “Wait! You can’t!”

  They threaded their way back through the forest. Drescott’s voice faded in the distance. “Wait!”

  As they walked farther from the inglorious sight, two other men slipped from behind sheltering trees. Lord Sedgwick’s stout form was made even larger by a voluminous greatcoat. “The cad. The utter cad.”

  “You heard?” Falconer asked.

  “Every word.” Carlyle gave Falconer a long and measuring look. “I can see now why Gareth prizes your friendship so highly, sir.”

  “It is the lass you should be thanking.” Falconer could not look over at her. Now that the deed was done, he felt only remorse. They had come far too close.

  “Indeed so.” Carlyle bowed in Serafina’s direction. “You have done us all a great service, ma’am.”

  Sedgwick added, “I trust the scoundrel did not harm you?”

  Serafina’s voice still trembled. “John Falconer kept me safe.”

  Five very subdued people exited the forest and returned to the field, where Falconer retrieved his coat. The rain had stopped for the moment. “You go dry off,” he told the others. “I must see to one more matter.”

  He watched as Daniel led the young woman into the old wing while the two men headed into the main house for dry clothes. Then he turned toward the stables. He found Harry currying down a chestnut mare. “A word, if you please, young Harry.”

  “Look at the state of your trousers. And your coat.” Harry inspected him in amazement. “Been traipsing about the woodlands? In this weather?”

  Falconer’s shame deepened. The others might call it a good day’s work. But he felt Serafina’s fear grind inside his own belly. It was wrong. He could not say precisely why. But he would not do it again. “He’s done it again,” Falconer said. “Attacked Serafina.”

  Harry dropped the brush. “Who, young Drescott?”

  “In the forest.”

  “That man should be strung up!”

  Falconer liked the lad for his simple outrage. “In a few hours he might be wishing that had been his fate.”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  Falconer explained what had happened and how they had left Drescott.

  “He’s lashed to an oak back there in the forest?” Harry’s smile threatened to split his face. “That should teach him right and proper.”

  “I was hoping you might free him.”

  “Aye, I’ll have a word with my dad. He can happen upon Drescott by chance, if you catch my meaning. The groundskeeper out giving the hounds a walk and what do you know, he comes upon the man.”

  “We hope to leave with the dawn. It would be good if Drescott is not able to divulge what he knows until after we’re well quit of the place.”

  Harry’s grin widened further. “A night in this storm will render any man silent, wouldn’t you say?”

  Chapter 25

  Falconer swung his legs to the floor and sat on the edge of his bed. He waited for his breathing to come back under control. The bedchamber’s walls seemed to tremble with the noise he feared he had made.

  But all was quiet when he went downstairs. He slipped on his boots and crossed the empty yard. The kitchen was calm as well. A lone scullery maid was busy with the oven fire, the first kettle of tea brewing on the big iron stove. Falconer greeted the young woman and poured himself a mug. He stood by the kitchen doorway and welcomed the next to arrive, chewing his husk of bread and pretending that all was right with his predawn world. Behind him he heard the servants speak of a curious event, how the groundskeeper had come trundling in at first light pulling a dogcart carrying Stewart Drescott. The young lord had been wrapped in a blanket and was shivering and groaning fiercely.

  Daylight gradually revealed a checkerboard sky. Occasional clouds raced by, pausing only long enough to throw fistfuls of stinging rain. Then they raced off north, leaving behind glistening light and a sweet-smelling earth. Falconer recharged his cup and wished for a way to remake the previous day.

  He spied Erica Powers crossing the path leading from the old wing to the kitchen. Serafina walked a pace behind, dressed in a high-necked dress of slate blue. Her hair was held back by a ribbon as pale as her eyes. Falconer addressed the older woman from the doorway, but his eyes remained upon the other. “Good morning, Mrs. Powers. You look proper lovely, Serafina.”

  “The dress belongs to Mrs. Powers,” she said, giving him her tiny smile.

  “It suits you most well.”

  Erica Powers remained well away from the kitchen door. “I would have a word with you, Mr. Falconer.”

  He leaned into the kitchen and set his cup down upon a window ledge. Then he joined Mrs. Powers by the side of the building, allowing her to draw him farther from the doorway. He had no interest in a public dressing down.

  “I cannot tell you how distressed I was to learn you had endangered Serafina.”

  “It was wrong,” Falconer said, eyes on the ground.

  “The entire affair was . . .” She stopped. “Pardon? What did you say?”

  “We should not have done it. You are right. I do apologize.”

  She paused, clearly caught off guard by his admission. “Why did you not realize this beforehand?”

  Serafina spoke up then, as soft as the dawn. “Falconer did not do wrong.”

  They both turned to her in surprise. “But he endangered your life! He put you directly in harm’s way!” Erica said.

  “I agreed because I knew he would protect me.”

  “I almost failed,” Falconer confessed.

  “But you did not.” Serafina looked at him with a clarity, a directness he had not seen before. “You came in time. And we learned who was behind the attack. That was important, yes?”

  When he did not reply, Erica Powers said, “Please go see to our breakfast, Serafina.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  When she was gone, the two of them continued to study the place where she had stood. Finally Erica asked, more quietly this time, “Why did you do it?”

  “You heard Sedgwick and Carlyle the same as I did. We needed hard evidence.” Falconer stared at the next approaching squall. “But I know now that was only half the truth.”

  “You wanted—”

  “Vengeance.” He felt both a burning rage and an overwhelming guilt. If only he could put such feelings away once and for all. “He had attacked Serafina. I wanted to punish him.”

  “Vengeance is not yours to apply,” she reminded him, but gently.

  “Aye, that
I know.” He sighed. “I know.”

  She studied him. “Might I speak with you about another matter? Something highly personal?”

  “You may address me on any matter you wish, ma’am.”

  “About Serafina.”

  A bloom of exquisite agony opened at his heart. “The lass, aye.”

  “She trusts you.”

  “That I know.”

  “She is also deeply wounded.”

  “I am aware of that as well.”

  “I have refrained from asking about her past and her upbringing because it distresses her so. But I have the impression that she was not raised a servant girl.”

  “The lass is highborn. No question.”

  Erica tested her words very carefully. “Do you have much experience with women, Mr. Falconer? I do hope you won’t take my question the wrong way.”

  “Mrs. Powers, I have the highest regard for you and your husband. I understand the question, and the answer is a very simple no.”

  “She has revealed that a man has hurt her very deeply. Such wounds do not close swiftly. No matter how it may appear, she will need time for her heart, her emotions, to heal. Do you understand what I am saying?”

  “I do indeed.” Falconer’s words were a breath almost lost to the wind. “She needs a trusted friend. And nothing more.”

  The manor’s chief groundskeeper, Harry’s father, was as gnarled as old roots. He doffed his cap to the Powers family and Serafina as they approached the waiting carriage. He then motioned for Falconer to step aside. He said quietly, “I brought young Drescott in before dawn.”

  “I heard.”

  “Needed to fetch a dogcart. Fellow couldn’t take a single step on his own steam.” The groundskeeper did not sound the least bit sorry. “He’s upstairs shivering in a bath, he is. Doused in salts and steam and trembling like a whipped pup.”

  Falconer studied the ground at his feet. The old man’s evident satisfaction did nothing but convict him further.

  “I know of one other lass he’s savaged. Maybe more.” The groundskeeper’s face was as seamed as a winter’s field and just as dark. “The old duke’s as fine a man as I’ve ever known. Deserves better, the old duke does. Don’t know if I want my boy Harry hanging about the place once young Drescott takes over. Just hope I live out my own time before that happens.”

  When Falconer still did not respond, the man went on, “There’s a number of us here who are in your debt. We’re mostly a God-fearing lot. We’ve watched and been helpless to change things. Now we’re praying the young lord will think twice about his ways.”

  Falconer’s confusion was only compounded. He started back to the carriage and mounted up beside the driver. “We must be off.”

  The groundskeeper pointed east and said, “Take the side road there, the one leading straight into the sunrise. It’ll bring you out by way of a side entrance that’s only used at harvest time. Least likely entrance to be watched.”

  Gareth Powers leaned through the carriage window. “We are most obliged to you and all the staff, sir.”

  “A privilege to meet your honors. Many’s the night my young Harry’s read what you’ve had to say in your pamphlets, what about rights and charity and such.” He doffed his cap. “May God speed your journey, sir, and watch over you all your days.”

  Daniel sat to one side of the driver, Falconer to the other. Both men held cocked pistols. A pair of haying hooks rose between them, as close to pikes as Falconer could find about the manor. The driver was made nervous both by the men and the suggestion of danger. But he handled the horses well, and they made good time. They held to small lanes and saw no one until they reached the outskirts of Bath. After that they were simply one more in a long line of coaches and wagons. Daniel stowed the pikes and they rode safely to Bath’s city center.

  The station from which the train departed was enough to frighten both beast and man. The horses jerked nervously as they approached, made skittish by the steam rising from the building’s other side. The wind picked at the manmade clouds and sent them billowing out over the station and the carriages. Horses whinnied in real fear at the smell of smoke.

  The train itself was hardly better. The group had a compartment to themselves, with Daniel stationed in the hall outside. The window was shut against the fumes and the glowing cinders that drifted in the wind. The train started off twenty minutes late, with a grinding squeal and chuffing noises from far in front. The town was soon left behind, and the train accelerated into a long series of curves. Speed and more speed as they swept through one green-sided valley after another. Falconer watched with alarm as the rattling contraption carried them ever faster, until he was certain they were close to flying off the earth itself.

  The Powers family, however, had ridden on the train any number of times. Neither the clattering din nor the speed seemed to affect them in the slightest. Even Hannah enjoyed watching the world whoosh by. She delighted in pointing out items that were gone before Falconer could properly see them.

  Once clear of the Wiltshire hills, they entered verdant fields. The train’s rude vibrations calmed somewhat, and Gareth settled into his corner seat and fell asleep. Mrs. Powers opened the window a fraction, for the wind now blew the smoke away from them. She sat next to Serafina, with Hannah to their other side. Falconer sat beside the compartment door, both to block any entry and to leave the middle seat free for Gareth to stretch out in slumber. The man looked wan but not unwell. Clearly, the days at Harrow Hall had done him good. Pity there had not been more of them.

  Mrs. Powers cleared her throat and adopted a formal manner. “Serafina, I hope you will forgive me for prying. But I feel a rather urgent need to know more about you than I do.”

  Serafina’s gaze widened in the manner of a startled fawn. But she said, “I understand.”

  “I believe you told me you are from Venice, is that correct?”

  “Yes. My father’s family is old Venetian.” She pronounced it in the Italian manner. Veneziàna. Yet the lilting manner belied a growing sorrow. “My mother is from the hills.”

  “Hills?”

  “To the north. The mountains.”

  “Ah. You mean the Alps.”

  “Yes. Her family are Dolomiti. You understand?”

  As Falconer observed the two women, he saw in them a great similarity of manner, one that overcame the difference in age and nationality. A former captain he had served under, a hard-bitten merchant seaman who had clawed his way up the ranks in the same manner as Falconer, had scorned such traits. The old captain had called them parlor antics and claimed that they could be taught to any intelligent monkey. The old captain had loathed such people and the class they represented, and the way he had forever been shut out of their ranks by the mistake of birth. But Falconer observed the two ladies and saw something different. He saw the ability to express breeding and custom before even opening their mouths. He saw a different world. One in which Falconer knew he would never belong.

  “You said your family’s name was Gavi, is that correct?”

  “Gavi, yes.” Just saying the word caused Serafina to wince, as though pierced by some unseen weapon.

  Mrs. Powers clearly noticed the young woman’s distress. Her manner was gentle but insistent. “Your father, is he alive?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “What does he do, may I ask?”

  “He is a merchant. And a doge.”

  “Excuse me, I am unfamiliar with that term. What was it again?”

  “Doge. It means prince in the Venetian dialect.”

  Falconer noticed that Gareth opened his eyes to that, then swiftly shut them again. And pretended to sleep.

  “Y-your f-father is royalty?” Erica stammered.

  “Once. A long time ago. Now the title is a, how do you say it, formalità.”

  “A formality.”

  “Yes. Venice is now part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. The merchant princes still have their council, but all power is held by the k
ing’s commissioner.”

  Neither Erica nor Hannah seemed aware that Serafina’s accent had thickened. From Hannah’s lap, the kitten complained over how Hannah ignored it. Hannah silenced the animal without taking her eyes from Serafina.

  “And where is your father now?” Erica asked.

  “America.” Serafina turned her face to the window. “My father and my mother, they are in Washington.”

  “America,” Erica repeated.

  “The council sent him. They are on some secret mission for the council. I do not think the governor knows. My father, he serves as consiglière.”

  This time Erica did not ask for a translation. Instead, she glanced at her husband, whose eyes were once more open. “And they sent your father.”

  “Yes.”

  The question settled heavily upon the compartment’s atmosphere even before Erica spoke the words. “Why are you not with them?”

  Tears began to course down Serafina’s face. Before the question had been framed, she had started to weep. “I thought . . . I thought I had fallen in love.”

  Falconer drew a clean handkerchief from his pocket, reached forward, and pressed it into her hand. Serafina looked down uncomprehendingly. She blinked, dropping tears onto the cloth.

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Erica said very softly.

  “I fell in love,” Serafina repeated, talking now to the hands in her lap. “Luca was my instructor at the academy. For art. He was military. He said . . .”

  This time no one spoke. The train rattled and drummed. Sunlight dashed upon the rail car and the weeping young lady. Finally Serafina was able to continue. “He said he wanted to marry me. I ran away. My parents brought me back. I became ill. They carried me onto the ship. It was an English vessel. We stopped in Portsmouth. I ran away again. I came to Harrow, where my aunt lives. She is ill. She had received a letter from my mother. Luca lied about everything. . . .” Serafina could go no further.