Phantoms In Philadelphia (21 page)

Leaning close, I whispered in my deepest voice that
I used only as Loutaire, “Yer not very conciliatory fer one who
saved yer life.”

Her body stiffened, and I knew that she was staring
at me, but I could not see her eyes in the darkness. After a
moment, she pressed her lips against mine, a little crooked.
Surprise burst in me, followed immediately by heat, everywhere.

Desire awakened in my belly, and I deepened the
kiss, my mouth moving over hers like she was the water I needed to
put out my fire. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew she was
trying to distract me with her kiss, but it did not bother me. What
caught me off guard was the way she melted into my embrace, leaning
against me and her mouth following my lead. Her hand rested on my
shoulder, and I placed my hand on her waist, pulling her against
me. My other hand still held her wrist, but I raised it until it
was resting against my shoulder. As her tongue slid into my mouth,
she tasted sweet, and as much as I wanted to follow where this was
going, I remembered whom I was kissing and where we were. I forced
myself to pull back.

I could hear her heavy breathing before she turned
away from me to run again. I reached out and jerked the sack from
her grasp. She swung around. I raised my pistol and cocked it, the
sound echoing like a sharp intake of breath. She did not move, but
I could tell by her rigid stance that she wanted to fight me for
whatever was in the bag. I swung it up into my hand and felt around
the bag. It was the chalice, den kop torden. I began to back away,
and she made no move to follow.

“We’ll speak again soon,” I said in my deepest voice
before backing out of the alley. The last sight I had of her was
her sagging against the brick wall.

After riding away at a clipping pace and following a
roundabout direction, I left my horse at the livery that housed
him.

All was quiet when I let myself
into my house. I walked up the stairs to my chamber. Leo must have
arrived home before me, for there was a fire burning in the grate.
Opening the bag, I pulled out an ornately carved chalice. There was
an engraving on each side of the goblet, a throne on one side, and
a crest that had an eagle and a lion poised over a shield. The
shield had a phoenix in the center.
Den
kop torden
.

I put the chalice under my bed and changed out of my
smoke covered clothes. Sitting on the edge of my bed, I stared out
the window into the dark night. Hannah’s face flashed in my mind
dressed as the white phantom. I put her up against the Hannah who
flounced around ballrooms. One woman intrigued me, the other
disgusted me.

Thinking about our kisses, heat
crawled up the back of my neck. That woman knew how to entice a
man, but I could not allow my emotions to get caught up in a few
heated embraces. She was my enemy, and as such, I had a duty to
fulfill. It did not matter that she could ignite a passion in me
that I had never before known. Hannah would be present at
a picnic Ephraim was holding, and I hoped that I
could finally get some answers. Then I could put all of my
misguided feelings for the woman to rest and focus my attention on
a woman who needed me. Guinevere. But, first came Sunday, and I
wondered for the hundredth time if Guinevere would ridicule me for
my secret—or respect me.

***

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 again, 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.

Bess

20 June 1816

W
e were
seated in the carriage on the way to the Knowlton’s home where
Ephraim, Charles Knowlton’s only son and heir, was hosting a picnic
for the younger people of society. I was seated beside Edith,
listening to Guinevere, who sat across from us with Jack at her
side, telling a story about when she bought her first
horse.

I was listening, but as I sat back in the corner of
the carriage, I kept my eyes on Jack, watching him as he gazed at
Guinevere. He was falling in love, though I doubted that he knew
how deep his feelings were. Guinevere was lovely with her dark
auburn hair and her eyes so blue they appeared purple. She could
tell a story by expressions alone, and she was vivacious. When she
spoke, I could tell that she loved life, but in moments when she
thought no one was watching, there was a sadness that would creep
into her eyes, like her thoughts were on a memory that caused her
pain. If she caught you looking at her, she immediately perked
up.

As the carriage came to a stop outside the
Knowlton’s brick house, a footman was there to open the door and
help us down from the carriage. Edith took my arm, and we moved
ahead, rounding the house and walking toward the garden. A veranda
stepped down to a pebble path that led straight into the opening of
the garden. Entering the garden was like stepping into your own
private utopia. Walls of green shrubbery surrounded you in every
direction as you walked through a labyrinth of colorful flowers.
When you stepped out of the garden at the north end, you were
looking over a delightful pond resting at the bottom of a small
hill. People milled about over the manicured lawn, shooting arrows
at the archery targets, swinging on the two seated tree swing, or
filling plates with food at the three tables that were well stocked
with every imaginable dish.