***
On Sunday morning when Jericho stopped the carriage before Guinevere’s house, I opened the door. I had not particularly wanted to take a carriage, but what I was about to show Guinevere would take too long to reach on horseback. As I knocked on the door, it was opened immediately by Guinevere. I stepped back, admiring the picture she presented. She wore an ivory gown beneath a long pelisse of dark green velvet. Gold clasps fastened the top of the pelisse across her chest, giving it a military look. The green suited her pale skin and auburn hair. I asked after Martha, but Guinevere said she had not invited her to accompany us.
Chuckling, I offered my arm, and she stepped down, closing the door. I had prepared for such a circumstance. It was for that reason Mariah was riding beside Jericho on the box seat.
When we were seated in the carriage, she did not ask where we were heading. She trusted me. I liked that.
“I was surprised that you wanted to go out so early. Do not poets sleep until noon?”
Leaning into my corner of the carriage, I watched her. Her delicate brows were raised in question, but the twitch of her lips told me she was nearly laughing.
She was in a fun humor. I laid a hand over my heart. “You wound me, milady. I hardly ever sleep until noon.”
“Ten then?”
“I will have you know that I was used to rise promptly at eight every morning. Until I met you,” I said with an air of importance that one would expect from a devoted poet.
“What changed when you met me?” she asked, giving me a coy smile.
“My world.” The words dropped upon me like a heavy stone sinking to the bottom of a lake. It was true.
“Charming,” she replied.
My head warned to be careful where I went next. “But, you believe not a word of it.”
She laughed because I had caught on. She did not believe me; at least she was trying not to. Guinevere was guarded with her emotions, but she was honest, and she expected me to be honest in return. This day was the first step.
When we reached our destination, Guinevere’s eyes grew round as she looked out the window and then to me. The carriage came to a stand, and I opened the door.
“You are taking me to church?”
I could not contain my laughter as I stepped down from the carriage and turned, placing one foot on the carriage step. “You asked to see why I am called Saint John.”
“Yes, but I did not expect this.” There was no derision in her voice, only astonishment.
I held out my hand, and with a long-suffering sigh, she took my hand and climbed down as the church bells rang.
The church was a small, white building with a white bell tower on the top. Farmers and their wives were entering the building, but as we approached, people stepped back; the women beaming at us and men removing their hats. As we went through the double doors, I led Guinevere to a pew, and she slid in. We were the only two in the row.
When the bells stopped their joyous ringing, a door at the back of the church opened, and Reverend Gideon Reid my mentor and friend entered. He caught sight of me and my companion and smiled. I returned it readily.
Gideon had been a friend of my father’s, and after he had died, Gideon took me under his wing, mentoring me in all forms of literature. It was only within the last six months that I learned that my father had given a full confession to Gideon, extracting a promise that Gideon would look after me—help me to keep my cover of a poet. My father trusted Gideon so much that he told him our secret. Other than Bess and Leo, Gideon was the one person I could speak openly with. He never condemned me and was always ready with advice without being overbearing or interfering.
The service was wonderful as always. Gideon was unlike any minister I had ever met. Instead of reading from the Holy book alone, he would tell stories so his congregation could better understand what he was trying to teach them. He knew how to make a crowd hang upon his every word. When the service ended and Gideon had made his way down the center aisle, the congregation rose to follow.
Gideon stood at the door and greeted each person by name. I glanced at Guinevere and was relieved to see that she was not upset or nervous, only curious.
“Why, John, it was good to have you in service today. Won’t you introduce me to your companion?” Gideon asked as I shook his hand, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes multiplying when he smiled.
“Reverend Reid, this is Miss Clark.”
“Ah, yes of course. I have heard your name spoken.”
Guinevere glanced at me, and I looked innocently back. She turned back to Gideon, holding out her hand which he shook with a gleam in his eyes. “I thoroughly enjoyed the service, Reverend.”
“Thank you. I hope you will come again soon,” he said sincerely. Gideon was kind to everyone, and I had spoken to him of her when I came to see him one day a week.
As we moved on, he winked at me over Guinevere’s turned head.
We stepped into the churchyard, but Guinevere tugged on my arm, and I stopped. “I still do not understand.”
“You will,” I assured her.
“Mr. John! Mr. John!” shouts came from the door to the church as five small boys ran toward us followed by four older ones at a more decorous pace. They surrounded us, with my greeting the orphans by name. Each child I had spent time with in the past, either by giving them rides on my horse or tossing a ball with them in the field.
“Is this your lady?” one of the smallest, a boy of six, asked.
“Hezekiah, that is none of your concern,” one of the older boys said.
“It is all right, Zachariah,” I assured the older boy gently, then looked over the group. “Gentlemen, on your best behavior.” They threw their shoulders back, standing at attention as I had taught them a soldier would. “This is a friend of mine. Miss Clark. What do you say?”
They saluted her. A smile appeared on her lips. “Thank you, gentlemen, for that kind salute.”
She caught sight of something over my shoulder, and I turned. Four orphan girls were behind us, and they were watching Guinevere closely. She laid a hand on my arm briefly before moving toward them. As she greeted them, the area around my heart tightened. I became aware of eyes upon me and looked down at the little men around me.
“At ease, soldiers.”
They relaxed, and one of the smaller said, “She be winsome.”
Watching Guinevere converse with the girls, I knew without a single doubt that there was no comparing anyone to her; she was without match. “That she is.”
Half an hour later as we were again in the carriage, she stared at me from her corner. “Are they all orphans?”
“No, but they are all fatherless. Most of their fathers were killed during the war. I spend as much time with them as I can. I know I cannot replace their fathers, but I hope that at least I can show them that someone cares about them.”
Guinevere was silent for a few minutes as she looked out the window. Then, without looking at me, she asked, “How often do you see them?”
“I try for once a week, but that is not always possible. I wish there was more that I could do—” I broke off as she turned toward me and laid her hand over mine where it was resting on the seat.
“What you do for them, giving of your time, showing that you care, will stay with them forever.” There was such conviction in her eyes that I could not speak. She was near to tears, and I all of a sudden remembered that she was an orphan herself, she had a guardian, but no real family. I felt like a complete fool. I should have considered how something like that would affect her, but I had not.
She turned away to look out the window again. “You will make a wonderful minister.”
Would I? Not likely. What she did not know was that, though I thoroughly enjoyed my time spent with the orphans, I had volunteered my time to try to atone for my sins of all the people I had killed both as a Phantom and in war. “At another time, your words would have given me great joy.”
She turned toward me aga
in, hope showing in her eyes. “But not now?”
“Not now,” I agreed. “Miss Clark, there is to be a picnic at the Knowlton’s on the twentieth. I was hoping that you would like to go, with me.”
“Yes. Yes, I would like that very much indeed.”
An understanding passed between us, unspoken, but there all the same.
Chapter 17
Phantoms In Philadelphia (Phantom Knights Book 1) Page 26