Against the Tide (34 page)

A trickle of relief settled over her at his words. For whatever
reason, she had not been blessed with a revelation like Bane, or the gift of parents to guide her in faith like the admiral, but that did not mean she had been abandoned. Patience was something she had in great abundance, and if practicing patience would lead her into the Lord’s house, she would be patient.

Bane gave her foot a tug. “Why are you worried that I won’t marry a drug addict? Don’t tell me you are having doubts about your ability to beat this thing.”

She rolled her head against the side of the tub to shoot him a heated glare. “Bane, I have doubts about my ability to crawl to that toilet the next time I need it.” She ought to be embarrassed, but she had no room left for shame inside her wasted body.

Bane simply smiled at her. “That’s why I am here, Lydia.”

36

T
he Professor stood on the loading dock, watching laborers heft crate after crate of his books into the railway car. The contents of those crates were a thousand years in the making. He had sacrificed his life to find, rescue, and preserve them. Many of his books had survived through the dark centuries of the medieval period, the religious wars of the Renaissance, and the slow neglect of the ages. And now, thanks to his meticulous planning, once again his books would be rescued from the danger that threatened to take him down. This was merely one more wrinkle in a thousand-year battle to rescue these priceless artifacts from a world that did not deserve them.

“That is the last of them, sir,” a sweaty laborer said as he crossed the train station platform for payment.

“Very good,” he said as he paid the laborer, his eyes scanning the platform. Mrs. Rokotov and that fool Boris should have been here by now. There was no excuse for their tardiness in meeting him, and he would waste no more time worrying about them. He
was already several days behind schedule. It had taken longer than he expected to arrange to lease the railway cars for his books.

In total, he had three railway cars full of books, and within the hour they would be speeding to their new home in northern California, where the cool climate was ideal to protect his treasures. He took one last, lingering look at the railway cars before heading toward the passenger car at the front of the train. It bothered him to be several car lengths away from his books, but he did not want to call attention to himself by insisting on a particular order of the railway cars.

He boarded the passenger car, turning sideways to move through the crowd of workingmen and day laborers who filled the compartment. He kept his face carefully neutral, despite the tawdry, rough-cut look of most of the passengers. What could one expect when you rode a train from a town like Scranton? There appeared to be only one gentleman, seated directly in front of him, whose tailored jacket indicated he was a man of substance. The rest were common workmen.

No matter. The train pulled out of the station, and the Professor retrieved
The Last of the Mohicans
from his jacket. The novel was pure pulp, but worthwhile nevertheless. He was somewhat like the lead character, the last of a proud and dying breed. The train was several miles outside of Scranton when the gentleman in front of him turned around.

“Professor Van Bracken?”

He stiffened. He had hoped to leave that name behind forever, but he would maintain a calm and professional demeanor until he could distance himself from this man. He looked up. “Yes?”

The dark-haired man smiled. “I am pleased to finally meet you. I am Admiral Fontaine, the man whose son you kidnapped last month.”

The man’s voice was so conversational, it took a moment for the Professor’s frozen mind to process the words, but he recovered quickly. “I’m sure I don’t know what you are talking about.”

Admiral Fontaine stood and put his hands on his hips, allowing his tailored coat to fall back and reveal the pearl-handled revolver on his hip. “Yes, you do. Allow me to introduce my companion, Mr. James Lockwood.” The bull of a man next to Fontaine stood and turned around. “Mr. Lockwood is the lead field agent of the Secret Service Agency. Perhaps you have heard of them? They investigate fraud against the U.S. government, including tax evasion.”

These men were going to seize his books. His treasure was in danger. The Professor shot from his seat and was about to bolt toward the door when all the men in the railway car stood up in unison.

“Actually, every man in this car is working for the agency, so there is nowhere for you to run.” Cold contempt dripped from every word Fontaine spoke. The door was blocked, the windows bolted shut. He was surrounded on all sides by crass, muscular men.

“I won’t let you seize my books.” He would kill himself first.

“They are already taken. The railcars were disengaged before we left Scranton.”

His heart skittered in a rapid tempo. He was dizzy and short of breath as he sank back onto the bench. “You can’t do this,” he gasped. “Those books belong to the ages.”

“I rather think they will belong to the Library of Congress when all is said and done,” Fontaine said. “You have run up quite a tax bill, so I think donating those books to the government might be a good start.”

If there was any mercy in the world, he would be struck dead here and now. He would give his entire fortune if he could order his heart to stop beating or his brain to shut down. His books
would be unpacked by filthy hands, looked at and fingered by masses of nasty, crude people who would use a public library. But there was no mercy, only a ham-fisted man who forced him back into his bench.
The Last of the Mohicans
fell to the dirty floor of the railway car as an agent jerked his wrists forward and slapped handcuffs on him.

His world was over.

37

T
en days into Lydia’s treatment, she was finally able to snatch a few restless hours of sleep per day, which gave Bane time to step outside and see the Fontaines off on their journey back to Boston. The carriage was packed and ready for departure outside the admiral’s grand estate, but Eric’s face was grim as he headed toward Bane. “Make sure Lydia takes this,” he said, holding out an envelope.

Bane flicked a speck of lint from his coat. “I can’t
make
Lydia accept it,” he said casually. “You aren’t exactly her favorite person.”

The admiral pressed his lips together in a hard line. He cut short whatever he was about to say as another servant trudged across the gravel drive, carrying a lunch basket to the carriage. The children and Eric’s mother were already aboard, waiting for Eric to join them.

Eric lowered his voice so the servant would not hear. “Get Lydia to take this, or I’m cramming it down your scrawny throat.”

Bane gave the admiral his most pleasant smile. “Try.”

Lydia had more important things to worry about than listening
to an apology from Eric, who was still champing at the bit to win her forgiveness before he went back on the warpath. From the moment the Professor had been clapped into chains, Eric had launched a mission to search out and destroy the rest of the servants who had participated in holding his boy hostage. Eric had been there when the local militia unit had raided the Professor’s mansion, only to find it vacant and abandoned. Like rats fleeing a sinking ship, the Professor’s guards and servants had vanished into the countryside well before the militia arrived.

They would probably never be punished. America was a vast country, and it would be easy for them to disappear into the coal fields, the prairies, or the burgeoning cities out west. . . . But Bane didn’t envy them trying to escape Admiral Fontaine’s wrath. The man had unlimited resources and a relentless determination to seek justice.

Some of that determination was evident to Bane now as Eric took a step closer, jerked Bane’s hand out, and slapped the envelope in it. “Don’t be an annoying tick, Bane. If you can get Lydia to accept this, I’ll consider letting you back on my senate campaign.”

Bane tucked the envelope into his breast pocket. “Lydia and I think along the same lines, so naturally her judgment is perfect. You can be sure she will see the wisdom of your offer.”

It might be a little trickier than he made it sound to get Lydia to accept the admiral’s offering, but Bane knew Eric’s offer was in her best interests. If it also got him back onto the admiral’s campaign, so much the better.

Three weeks into her treatment, Lydia experienced her first full night of sleep. When she awoke, the muscles in her body were calm, restored. Her mind was clear as she listened for the soothing
sound of the waves breaking on the shore. Turning to glance at the clock, a faint smile curved her mouth as she realized this was what seven blissful hours of sleep felt like. She lay in bed, savoring the sensation of absolute contentment.

Thank you,
she whispered into the morning air.

Whom was she speaking to? She could not put a name to it, but power was flowing through her, flooding her with a sense of well-being.

A copy of the Bible on the bedside table caught her gaze, and she was inexplicably drawn to it. Lydia pushed herself into an upright position, wanting the weight of the heavy Bible on her lap. Karl’s advice about starting with the book of John had not worked out so well, so she simply opened the book to a random spot and landed on a passage from Song of Songs:

Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away

For lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone;

The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come.

Lydia’s breath caught in her throat. Could she have asked for a more fitting passage at this exact moment? She had survived the deepest winter of her life, and after a brutal freeze, her body and soul were beginning to emerge into the warmth of spring. She wanted to read more, but her eyes brimmed with tears, for it was no coincidence she had opened the book to this passage. When she stopped struggling so hard to understand God and had simply flipped open the Bible at random, she had come upon the passage that gave her a profound sense of comfort.

It was no coincidence.
She knew.
A loving God had just sent her a message when she was finally open to hearing His words. She was no longer a storm-tossed orphan without a home, no longer adrift
in a world without an anchor. Bowing her head, she savored the odd combination of peace and hope mingling within her spirit. Part of her wanted to remain motionless in bed to solidify this feeling in her memory for all time, and another wanted to dash outside to run in the surf and laugh at the sky.

She pulled on a satin dressing robe and looked out the window at the spectacular view. Along the shore, the grasses were turning green and the world was ready to shake free of hibernation. And somewhere above that mighty ocean, a loving God had just whispered a message of comfort into her ear.

Today was a new beginning. She would read and study and seek out other people of faith to hear their stories as well. There was so much to learn! She had not felt this joyful eagerness to learn since her first day of school more than fifteen years ago. She did not know what her future held, but she was ready to embrace the challenge.

When she joined Bane in the parlor later in the morning, she showed him the passage from Song of Songs. He did not seem to be the least bit surprised at her opening the Bible to that particular page. “When you learn to spot the signs, you will see evidence of the Lord’s work in many places throughout your life,” he said simply.

“I feel like I have so much to look forward to. So many things to consider in a new light.” She turned to look at Bane. “I need to thank you for being my lighthouse. You did not turn away from me when you knew I lacked faith. And you stood by me even when you learned about my horrible problem with Mrs. Winslow’s.”

Bane’s smile was rueful. “I am the last person who could ever have the right to throw stones.” And when she looked at his rakish smile, she knew he was absolutely correct. They were two imperfect
people who had weathered the storms of life and had battle scars to show for it.

She settled deeper into the cushions and let her gaze scan over the richness of the room. Never in her life had she seen such splendor and wealth in one location, but it held no allure to her. She wanted to drink out of a pottery mug instead of a porcelain teacup. She wanted to sleep on cotton instead of silk. “I’m ready to go home,” she told Bane. “I miss my old life at the Boston harbor. I want to listen to the peddlers selling oranges in the morning and watch the fishermen haul in their catch at the end of the day. I want a hearty cup of clam chowder at a dockside coffeehouse.”

Bane strolled toward her until he stood at the opposite end of the deeply upholstered sofa. “I wonder if you will change your mind when you see this note.” He reached inside his jacket and extracted a small square envelope that he held aloft between two fingers.

“What is it?” she asked. Bane’s sober demeanor made Lydia suddenly fearful of what the scrap of paper contained. Bane continued to scrutinize her through intense eyes, and she shifted in discomfort.

“It is possible I forgot to mention one tiny detail about rescuing Jack,” he said slowly. “When the admiral’s son was first kidnapped, he issued a sizeable reward for anyone who helped to get the boy back. As it happens, that person was you.” He handed the envelope to Lydia.

The envelope was a thick, creamy paper, and her fingers trembled as she opened the flap to extract a check. It took her brain a while to process what she was seeing.
“Ten thousand dollars?”
She counted out the zeros at the end of the number, but she had read it correctly the first time. She stared at the check, barely able to grasp what that amount of money meant. “I didn’t do it for a reward,” she said numbly.

“I know,” B
ane said. “We
all
know that you went into that house with no knowledge of the reward Eric posted, which is another
reason you are so impressive in his eyes.” He sank down onto the sofa beside her. “Now, before you start arguing about accepting this money, you should know that the admiral intends to hound you until you accept it. He’s still miffed you won’t take your old job back, and he’s looking for any way to soothe his guilty conscience. You’ll be doing him a favor by accepting the money.”

She stared blankly at the check. “I’ve probably been fired from my job at the bakery by now.”

“No doubt.” He nudged her with his elbow. “If I can persuade you to take the reward money, he’ll let me back onto his election campaign. He’ll flounder without me, and besides, I could use another senator in my back pocket.”

“You are
so
arrogant.” She fought back a grin as she folded the check and slipped it back into the envelope. “But I’ll take the money. I have no desire to return to howling poverty.”

“Do you still want to go back to Boston?”

She rested her head against his shoulder, her mind reeling with the implications of sudden wealth. She could go anywhere in the world. She could dress in silk and never work another day in her life.

But her soul longed for Boston. With Bane. Perhaps she could even buy her old apartment at the Laughing Dragon, which was the only home for which her heart truly longed. “I want to go home, and that means Boston,” she said with a confident smile. “Would it be possible to leave today?”

Bane smiled. “Let’s get you fed, and I’ll make arrangements to get us to the train station.”