Thomas called to me, “Who is the fair beauty you mean to toast, John?”
“Would that I could but look upon her face, know her thoughts and her dreams,” I replied reverently.
The men laughed and demanded to know who the fair maiden was, but I would not utter her name.
“Should I hazard a guess as to the fair name?” Thomas asked with raised brows.
I spread out my hands but said nothing.
Thomas looked at me for a moment. “I take it to mean that you have given up the church?”
Raising my glass to my lips I paused but a moment, smiling, then took a long drink. That was reply enough.
“You have succeeded where most of us here have failed,” Thomas told me.
Another man quipped in, “She never asked me to go riding with her, and I am a much better horseman.”
Philip looked at me. “Whoever she is, she must prefer little men.”
I was too sober to allow the comment to rankle me. Instead, I lifted my glass toward Philip and took another sip.
“You will not rile him this night. Well, gentlemen, raise your glasses. To John’s not-so-secret love,” said Thomas, raising his glass. “May he soon look upon her face.”
I raised my glass to that, hoping beyond anything that tomorrow would be my fortunate day.
Thomas thumped his glass on the table and stood, pushing his chair back. “I’m ready for more entertainment. Who’s with me?”
Dud’s anger abated; he went along with the others. I stood on the corner of Chestnut Street and watched as they piled into a carriage and drove away singing loud and slightly out of tune.
“How does my Lady’s garden grow?
How does my Lady’s garden grow
in silver bells and cockle shells
and pretty maids all in a row.”
Not in the mood for more ‘fun,’ I decided to walk home. I could have hired a carriage, but much was on my mind, and a walk in the moonlight suited my mood.
It was a half hour walk from Centre Square to my house, and I could not let down my guard, especially on this day. The town had its share of thieves, and they came out in force on holidays.
When I made it to the corner of 4th and Spruce Street, I was chilled all over. It was so cold that I could see my breath as I exhaled. I was about to turn down Spruce, when I saw a figure hooded and cloaked in black several paces in front of me on 4th Street. The way the person was hurrying caused my curiosity to get the best of me. I followed.
The figure turned onto Cypress Street, and a flash of skirt protruded from under the cloak. That was no man ahead of me. I picked up my pace, determined to see that the woman came to no harm. What any woman was doing out alone was no business of mine, though it did not keep me from wondering. She was three houses away from 3rd Street, when she suddenly stopped. I expected her to turn and look toward me, but she did not. She was looking to her right, as if something had captured her attention. She stepped closer to a small alley between two houses.
What is the fool woman doing?
A large shadow moved out of the alley, grabbed the woman, then they both disappeared.
My stomach dropped. I pulled my pocket pistol out as I ran to the alley. I slowed as I neared, being sure not to let the sounds from my shoes touching the cobblestones make a loud noise. I was in front of the house beside the alley when a woman’s voice floated out.
“You do not want to do that.”
It washed over me like someone throwing cold water on me in the middle of winter.
“Ah, Guinevere, we’s only playing,” a man’s scratchy voice replied.
Guinevere. Everything in me reeled. I pressed my back against the house to keep myself upright.
It could not be her; it must be some other Guinevere. Even as I thought the words I knew that there was no other Guinevere, it was she. Something inside of me snapped when I heard her voice again.
“If you touch me, I will be forced to take action, and you do not want that to happen.” It was definitely her voice.
Rage boiled inside of me, anger at her for risking her life in being out alone, but full rage at whoever the ruffian was who was accosting her. I started to move into the alley, when the man’s voice froze me mid-step.
“Them Phantoms aptly named ye when they called ye the white phantom.”
I grasped hold of the brick house for support. There was a street lantern at the other end of the alley that illuminated them enough for me to see what was happening, but not enough to make out faces. I watched the man lean one hand against the brick of one of the houses that made up the alley. There was hardly enough room for one person, so when he leaned against her, there was no space between them. Two other shadows appeared on the other side of him. They had not noticed my presence.
This cannot be. It is a lie! My mind screamed the words, but my mouth remained clamped shut in a hard line.
“Ye won’t be gettin’ away from us this time. We will take our payment from ye an’ when we’re through, ye can run to that pig an’ tell him we ain’t workin’ for him no more.” The large man took her arm and yanked her away from the wall.
My wrath overcame my shock, and I raised my pistol, but I could not fire for fear of hitting Guinevere. With the recovery from my shock, clear thinking started to return. If she truly was the white phantom, I could not let her see me. I stepped to the front of the house and watched, keeping my pistol aimed at the shadows in the alley.
“I likes me a feisty wench. Let’s see yer mettle.”
All went quiet then the sound of ripping fabric echoed through the alley, and my heart stuttered in complete fear. I no longer cared if she saw me. I would not allow those villains to assault her. I moved forward, but Guinevere’s hand came up holding something, and she struck the man across his forehead. He released her, swaying before falling forward against the brick wall. Guinevere turned to face the other two, her back to me.
One of the men growled as he moved toward her with his fists up. He tried to strike her, but she used her weapon to strike his fist, causing a cracking sound; then she used her weapon and hit the man in the throat cutting off his agonized scream. The choking and gurgling sounds meant that the man had but seconds to live. I lowered my pistol and stepped out of the alley again while Guinevere confronted the third man. I kept my pistol in hand, as a precaution, but I was too intrigued and confused to do anything more than watch and wait.
The third man grabbed her weapon from her hand, threw it down the alley, and shoved her against the wall as her weapon landed near my feet. His large hand went around her throat. “I should kill ya. All it would take is a little pressure.” I was ready to interfere, but the man’s voice halted me. “A child’s toy.” Between them she was holding a long dagger, the blade pressed against his heart.
I sensed more than saw that she was smiling. As fireworks burst in the sky and bells rung from the streets, a gunshot reverberated off the walls of the alley knocking chips of brick to the ground.
The large man stepped back with his hand moving to his chest before he fell like a chopped tree. What she carried was no mere dagger. Attached to the blade was a small pistol. I had heard of such devices, but never until that moment had I seen one used.
I stayed completely still in the shadows, waiting, but she did not move toward me. Instead, she moved toward the far end without a backward glance. When she was out of view, I bent and picked up her weapon; an iron rod, thick and sturdy. I followed her out of the alley up 3rd Street and onto Spruce Street. She stopped on the street right before my house; her gaze fixed upon a light illuminating one of the windows—my bedchamber window. Leo was waiting up for me to return as he usually did.
Guinevere took two steps toward the house as if she was going to go up to the door and knock or let herself in. She paused and turned away. I was about to step out of the shadows to follow her, when she stopped again and looked back at my house. She pressed her fingers to her lips and released them toward the house. Ev
erything within me stumbled into a land where dreams and nightmares collided.
She loves me. She had to. It was the only explanation for such an action. The truth of it made my stomach churn; it was as if a jagged knife ripped up the center of my heart. The woman that I loved, loved me in return.
Longing engulfed me. I wanted to run to her, give her a good shake, then hold her in my arms, kissing away my own confusion and hurt. The realization that she would probably try to shoot me if she knew that I was following her and had witnessed her actions caused a physical ache. I had to see her to safety though, and then I would have time to sort out my feelings.
Thankfully that was where she went. I waited until the door closed behind her before walking home in a numb state of mind. Guinevere. The white phantom. The words echoed through my mind. When I finally reached home, Leo was there to let me in.
I motioned for him to follow me into the library, and I enclosed us in the room. “Wake Jericho and take the wagon to the alley three houses down at Cypress and 3rd. There you will find the bodies of three deceased men. Dispose of them without anyone seeing you. At once!”
Leo stared at me for a moment, but said nothing as he left the room. I walked to the window and laid my forehead against the cold glass closing my eyes. It was as if my mind would not comprehend all that I had seen and heard. What should I be feeling? I did not know. I was too stunned to feel anything. Replaying in my head what she had done, caused an appreciation of her self defense to rise within me, and to think that I was going to offer her the protection of my name. I scoffed bitterly. Clearly she did not need my protection.
With the realization dawned, an unconquerable gulf formed in my chest. If she were truly the white phantom, I could not marry her. Of all the women in the world, I fell for the one that I could never have.
Sleep evaded me, and I sat up in my chair until after the sun rose. My mind was full of Guinevere, of the men she killed, how I could have been so close to her, kissed her, and not known that she was the white phantom. My mind tortured me, replaying all the times I had fought the white phantom, placing Guinevere’s face where there had been only a mask. My God, the woman lit a fire within me!
When I heard boots on the foyer floor, I did not turn from watching the window.
“Is all right, Jack?” Jericho asked from the door.
“Come in and close the door.” I heard it click shut as I stood and turned toward Jericho. “What news have you?”
“We have dealt with,” he paused, lowering his voice, “the deceased.”
“Very good.” I was too exhausted to inquire more, so I dismissed him.
Once seated upon the sofa, I sank my head into my hands and stayed that way. For the past seven hours I had tried to sort through my feelings but I had no more clarity than I did when I saw Guinevere kill those men. I was near to bursting in my need to figure out what I should do when a hand touched my shoulder.
“Are you feeling well, Jack? You look positively morose.”
“What need you, Bess?” I asked without looking up.
“I am unsure if I should speak if you are unwell...”
I raised my head to look at her. “I assure you I am well.”
Bess smiled almost shyly. “I wanted to inform you that Andrew wants to call upon you this day. When he visited yesterday, he mentioned that he would seek an interview with you.”
I could not ignore the pink tingeing her cheeks or her look of utter joy. Bess deserved happiness, but Harvey’s words were fresh in my mind, and I had yet to receive a report from Levi about Andrew’s doings.
“So then you know your own heart?” I asked, watching her face closely.
She nodded, holding my gaze with her own. “Yes, I opened my heart as you instructed, and I am content.”
“Then I shall hear the man out that I promise.” I offered a smile, but it had the effect of bringing Bess to my side and laying her hand against my brow.
“Are you sure you are well, Jack?”
I wished people would stop asking me if I was well. How could I possibly be? I blurted out, “No, I am not well. The woman I love is nothing but a selfish murderer.”
Chapter 23
Bess
What do you mean?” I asked. I had suspected he was in love with Guinevere, but I had not heard him confess as much. How could she possibly be a selfish murderer? Unless it was some kind of poetic nonsense where she was a murderer of his heart or emotions.
“Last night I saw the real white phantom at work,” Jack said, his watchful gaze on me.
“I do not understand. Wait, did Guinevere murder Hannah?” I could not see that, but the look on Jack’s face told me he was in earnest. Perhaps, it was self defense. It had to be. I knew Guinevere a little; she may be passionate, but I was sure she was neither selfish nor a murderer.
“Hannah is alive as far as I know, and she is no more the white phantom than you.”
If she’s not—that means—“Oh, Jack, no!” I lowered myself into the closest chair, horrified.
Jack told me about following Guinevere, at first, because he thought she was some woman who might need protection, and then, hearing the ruffians call her the white phantom—the name Jack had given her. That begged the question, how did they know of that name? Jack was still retelling the events from the previous night, so I tried to listen. Guinevere killed those three men in the alley, and then Jack picked up her iron.
I could not begin to fathom how he must have been feeling. “What will you do?”
“That is the question I have been asking myself, but I have yet to strike a conclusion.”
Resting my chin on my hand, I wanted to tell him that everything would work out, but I was not sure of that myself. The first time he fell in love, it had to be with a female assassin. Why could she not have been some needy damsel who only sought adventure through books? A dangerous wrath rose inside me.
Guinevere had shot my brother. He was on point when he called her a selfish murderer. As his elder sister and his leader, he needed me to show him how true his words were, but how?
A knock fell upon the front door, and Jack and I both turned. Arnaud opened the door, and Andrew entered. Joy fluttered in my chest as I sat up straight.
“Good morning, Mr. and Miss Martin.” Andrew smiled dimples, and all. He was certainly in a cheery mood.
I had not expected him to call so early, but that was something that I admired about him for he was not one to let an opportunity pass him by. He asked Jack to take a drive with him, and I could tell that Jack wanted to refuse, but I begged him with my look. He nodded acceptance and asked Andrew to allow him time to change his raiment.
After Jack had gone upstairs, Andrew and I had a few minutes alone, but he said nothing as he stood near the door and watched me. We often sat in silence, his eyes always watchful, until one of us could think of something to say, but I did not mind the silence, usually. We had not kissed again since the Harvey’s party, but he was always watching me.
“How is the weather today,” I asked inanely.
Andrew stepped closer. “I heard that there was ice as thick as a windowpane in the country this morning. It was certainly cold enough last night to make it so.” That was the extent of our conversation.
After I had seen Jack and Andrew out of the house, I sat alone in the library. Jack’s problem came rushing back like an abundant rain. I contemplated all the ways I could do Guinevere a mischief for the first five minutes, but that accomplished nothing but a momentary satisfaction. I wanted to put fear into her conniving heart; to let her know that her time was limited. Then an idea, something above and beyond, struck me. The language of flowers. I would send her a warning in a bouquet of flowers. I would wrap the bouquet around the iron and include a black feather, the mark of the Phantoms. When she picked up the bouquet, she would know that the Phantoms saw her at work. I ran up the stairs, nearly colliding with Leo.
“Forgive me, Leo. But, I am glad you are here. Jack brought home
an iron that I need you to find. It will be either in the library or his chamber. Thank you.” I did not wait for a reply as I went into my chamber where Mariah helped me to dress in my work clothes. I removed my wig and handed it to her and tied my shoulder-length hair back, tucking it under a black cap.
Mariah brought out a tray of hair. She mixed some paste and dabbed it along my upper and lower lips. She strategically placed hair, combing it until it was how she liked. Looking in the mirror, I nodded. After I was dressed in all black, I stepped out of my chamber as Leo was coming down the hall with the black iron held out before him.
“Perfect!” I snatched the iron from between his fingers. It was ten inches in length and solid. I took it down to the drawing room and locked it in the secretaire and left the house through the back door. Half an hour later, I was in the middle of the city flower market that had vendors selling different assortments of stems. There was even a hothouse for more rare blooms. I moved from vendor to vendor choosing stems.
The language of flowers was a way to send a hidden message, for every flower had a meaning. My mother had been taught about the language of flowers when my parents had lived in England before we immigrated to America. She started instructing me when I was twelve, and for years we worked to understand the different meanings. I was determined to weave a message that, if Guinevere understood the hidden meanings of flowers, would put dread in her heart. The thought of it made my step lighter.
Plucking stems from the flower carts; I mentally examined each one. Begonia to beware, anemones meant forsaken, nettle for cruelty, marigold for grief, snapdragon for presumption, a yellow carnation was for disappointment, and fern for secrecy. After paying for the flowers, I walked home. I went in to the kitchen, receiving stares of astonishment. Our cook and housekeeper were not happy to see me in my work clothes, but I ignored the women.
Mariah went to fetch the iron and something else that I required while I went to work arranging the flowers so the message would be clear. When Mariah brought me the iron, I wrapped the flowers around it. When I had them positioned, the meaning was: Guinevere should beware; her cruelty and presumption in disappointing will lead only to grief, for she was now forsaken because of her secrecy. I signed it with the black feather of the Phantoms. I wrapped the stems with a black ribbon and stepped back, pleased with my work. Even if Guinevere could not read the message, seeing the feather and the iron would be message enough.
Phantoms In Philadelphia Page 21