Black Eagle (6 page)

Certainly Marisa had sent a servant in search of the family physician, asking the man to hurry to the house. But the doctor had given little advice, saying only that Marisa should keep Sarah quiet and warm. As if Marisa hadn't already been doing exactly that.

At present, Sarah was sleeping, though that sleep was fraught with whimperings and stirrings.

Marisa frowned. There must be more that she could do. But what? This was Sarah, after all; Sarah, her friend and confidant. Sarah, who had never wavered in her devotion to Marisa. Sarah, who had taught her, schooled her, laughed with her, befriended her.

“No, do not leave me! Do not go in there!” Sarah sat up all at once. Her eyes were wide, yet unseeing, except perhaps for whatever was in her mind's eye. “Mother! Stay with me! Do not leave me!”

Marisa dropped to her knees beside Sarah's bed, and gently coaxed Sarah back into a prone position, but Sarah fought to be free, and sat up again. She said, “No, Mother, do not leave!”

Marisa hardly knew what to do, thus, she did the only thing that seemed natural. She took Sarah's hand into her own, and rubbed it.

How could Sarah have lived all these years with such pent-up emotion? And within terribly close quarters to the man who had caused her grief?

But then, Marisa reminded herself, until today, Sarah had not known that it was John Rathburn who was to blame, not only for Sarah's servitude, but for the deaths of her parents. Problem was, now that she knew or at least suspected the truth, how was Sarah to endure these next six years? Would not forced proximity to the man responsible keep the wound continually open?

“Mother! No!”

Instinctively aware that it was wrong to say too much around a person so ill, Marisa did no more than take Sarah into her arms, urging her back against the mattress and pillow. Tears, mirrored in Sarah's eyes, clouded her own.

It was unfair, nay it was terribly wrong, that Sarah should have to remain here, locked into a debt that was not of her own making, and to a man who had most likely caused the entire matter. Sarah's circumstance needed to change. But how?

Marisa had never had cause to give thought to concerns such as this. The only rule of law that she had ever known was the cold neglect of John Rathburn. Surely there was something
she
could do.

Perhaps there might be a sympathetic ear within Albany's administration of justice. Mayhap Sarah's servitude could be reversed. Who would speak for Sarah?

Certainly there were no witnesses from ten years ago who could come forward to accuse John Rathburn of wrongdoing. And even if such people did exist, what magistrate would believe them when pitted against the Rathburn wealth and reputation?

Only someone as wealthy as he could stand for Sarah. Only a person who's reputation was as well thought of as his . . .

As realization dawned, Marisa sat back on her heels. There
was
such a person. One person, who alone might be able to persuade John Rathburn to give Sarah her freedom.

That person was she, Marisa.

For a moment, Marisa's brow cleared as she considered her position. Not only might she hold sway over John Rathburn, she held an ace. Had she not last night heard him plotting the ruin and demise of an entire village of people? Was this not only unjust, but illegal?

“No!” Sarah cried, interrupting Marisa's thoughts. “Not my mother, my father! No, it cannot be!”

Marisa closed her eyes, letting a tear fall down over her cheek. Dutifully she pressed Sarah back against the bed's pillow, and bending, she dipped the rag that had been made hot by Sarah's feverish forehead back into cold water. Quickly, she replaced the rag over Sarah's forehead, then, picking up Sarah's hand yet again, Marisa plotted exactly what she would do, and what she might say to her guardian, John Rathburn.

She had much time in which to plan her strategy, as well, for it was well into the night when Sarah at last drifted into a restful sleep. Rising up onto her feet, Marisa knew what she would do, and she would do it yet this night.

Taking hold of the bucket of water, which by this time was warm, Marisa exited Sarah's room, glancing back once at Sarah before she gently shut the door.

Richard Thompson was not a man of honor. Quite the contrary, he was little more than a hired assassin. He was also an imposing man, a huge man with more than his share of flab, weighing perhaps three hundred pounds. Mouseybrown , tangled hair, thick jowls, yellow, broken teeth and a breath that might stagger the most stouthearted of men, he was not the sort of man to endear himself to any other soul, except perhaps those who had need of his services.

But this was exactly the impression he wished to present to the world. Such a look as he had was “business.” Though Thompson was not the most intelligent of people, he was bright enough to know when he'd floundered into a good thing.

And his enterprise with John Rathburn was, indeed, a “good thing.” Over the years, Thompson had hired out his services to Rathburn for the more delicate occasions when Rathburn required an opponent to be eliminated. True, Thompson might exude an appearance of being an oaf, but he was thorough in his work, and most importantly, he operated in complete secrecy.

Bad things were known to happen. It was a rough land here in America, a dangerous environment, a place where accidents were commonplace. And if at times, Thompson ensured that accidents did, indeed, happen, where was the fault?

Though constructed to be sturdy, the wooden steps quivered beneath Thompson's weight as he made his way to the front door of the Rathburn estate. He was under no illusions as to what was the purpose of Rathburn's summons. However, little could he have envisioned that on this one occasion, even he was to be startled.

“I's here to see Rathburn,” he stated to the butler, who answered the ring of the bell.

James, Rathburn's butler, nodded succinctly. He did not extend his hand to take Thompson's overcoat as was customary. Instead James, the butler, backed up, away from Thompson, sniffing indignantly as the fleshy odor of the man permeated the hall. He said, “Mr. Rathburn is expecting you. This way, please.”

If such rudeness were an unusual circumstance for Thompson, he deemed not to show it. With barely a glance at the butler, Thompson grunted out a response and followed the man into Rathburn's private office.

“Ah, there ye are, Thompson. Thank ye, James. We will require a bottle of brandy, two glasses and complete privacy. No one, and that includes my niece, is to disturb us. Do ye understand? ”

“Clearly, sir,” said James, who left posthaste. He returned shortly thereafter, and set out the liquor and glasses on a table. “Do you wish me to pour, sir? ”

“No, James, that will be all.”

James nodded and quit the room so quickly, one might have thought an evil lurked there.

His hasty departure left an awkward silence in its wake. To cover over the gap, Rathburn slowly poured the brandy into the two glasses and offered one of them to Thompson, who shot down the liquor as though it were no more than a spot of warm tea.

Rathburn was longer in his enjoyment of the brew. After some moments, he said, “Have ye ever considered a bath, Richard? ”

“What fer? ”

Rathburn didn't answer, sighed instead, and continued, “I have an unusual task for ye, Thompson.”

Thompson grunted, nodding. “Who is it to be this time, gov'nor? ”

Rathburn didn't hesitate to answer, stating forthwith, “My niece.”

Thompson spit out whatever liquid was left in his mouth. “Come again? ”

“The person in question is my niece.”

“Miss Marisa? ”

“That's right.”

“But I's met Miss Marisa.” Thompson, for all that he might be immune from that deterrent called scruples, was yet taken aback. “But she is young and . . .”

“My ward? ”

“Bonny,” said Thompson. “I was going to say bonny.”

“That she is,” said Rathburn. “She will also be heir to a small fortune, when she comes of age to inherit. A fortune, I might add, that I will lose to some young suitor in the near future, if I cannot convince her to marry the man of my choice.”

“Then ye is jealous of her? ”

“No,” stated Rathburn. Rathburn strode to his desk, where he opened a drawer and removed a pistol. “But I fear she has become much too inquisitive and an embarrassment to me. She has made certain information about my business known to herself, and that information is . . . delicate. Further, she fears me not.” Sitting in a chair pulled up behind his desk, Rathburn studied the pistol, before he proceeded to prime it. “I am afraid that her dangerousness to me has recently exceeded her worth.”

Momentarily Thompson was silent. “But have ye not raised her from when she was a small child? ” he asked.

“So I have,” said Rathburn. He shrugged, then smirked. “The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh.”

“I have never kilt a woman. Could ye not simply send her abroad? Perhaps to the nuns? ”

“That I could. But she presses me now, and there is damage she could do to me before I am able to make arrangements to send her overseas. She has threatened me.” He set down his pistol and spread his hands out over the desk. “Me.”

It did not escape Thompson's regard that Rathburn's eyes burned momentarily with a fire of insanity. In reaction, Thompson, all three hundred pounds of him, quivered. Rathburn, however, was continuing. “She plans to take her maid east to Portsmouth, New Hampshire,” he said. “ 'Tis a place where our family has often summered. There are friends there, who will welcome her. I believe my niece hopes to find her maid other employment there. However, it is my intention that neither she nor her maid should arrive there . . . alive.”

Thompson flinched. “The maid, too? ”

“I am afraid so. It would appear that my ‘dear' niece has shared her knowledge with her maid.”

“Two women . . . Not one, but two,” Thompson muttered. “I've never kilt a woman afore,” he repeated.

“If ye feel ye cannot to do the job . . . Of course ye do realize, that I am paying double for yer services.”

Thompson hesitated. Under his breath, he muttered, “The way through New Hampshire is through woods that are deep in Indian country, the Abenaki.”

“Indeed, it is so,” said Rathburn. “How fortunate. Many accidents could happen along the way.”

Thompson pulled at his collar. “The Abenaki's are not friendly to England. Could I not save ye the trouble and expense of a journey, and do the deed here? ”

“I should say not! T'would be an outrage. Why, the townspeople might question my ability to provide protection, might even doubt my worthiness to guardianship, which of course would include the loss of her fortune, should their doubts prove true. No, indeed,” continued Rathburn, “an accident along the path north and east 'tis better.”

Thompson, however, was not convinced, and he stalled further, saying, “What ye need is a scout, and I's no scout.”

“Ye may have leave to hire one, though I doubt ye'll need one, since the deed could be done once ye are outside of Albany.”

“But what if a chance to end it quickly does not prove itself in so timely a manner? ”

“Then ye will need a map and a guide. An Indian scout would be best since any other might give witness against ye.” Pivoting the pistol in his hand, Rathburn pretended to check its sights. “Of course, if ye decide the task is beyond ye to perform, the assignment is not an obligation.”

Rathburn's statement was a veiled, unstated threat, and Thompson well understood it. He grimaced. Truth be told, Thompson might be many things, a bully, an executioner, an assassin. But his “business” was typically conducted with stealth, and always under the cover of darkness. In truth, no threat to himself had ever presented itself.

This last was a pointed detail. For there was one particular aspect to Thompson's character that ruled his existence: He was an unprecedented coward.

He glanced once at the pistol that Rathburn so ungraciously handled; he wiped his lips, setting his mind to the fact that his future recommendations would hereafter include two women. Then, said Thompson, “Do ye have that map here? ”

“I do, indeed.”

 

 

“Oh, look!” said Marisa, as she dragged Sarah toward a merchant who was selling one of the largest pumpkins Marisa had ever seen. “I think we should ask cook to make us a pumpkin pie for our trip.”

Sarah smiled and shook her head. “And how are we to transport a pie? ”

Marisa pulled a face. “'Tis a fair point you make, since we will be traveling with only the three horses. Perhaps cook could bake the pie before we set out upon our journey.”