The Night Angel (3 page)
The royal gathering took place each Saturday afternoon, a chance for the titled and near-titled Europeans to gather, play court to one another, and pretend a superiority to the Americans they could only feel when surrounded by their own.
Prince Fritz-Heinrich was seated on a raised French chair at the salon’s far end. The chair back was as tall as a man and imprinted with the Hapsburg seal in gold leaf. A trio of musicians sat in the far corner, their instruments at the ready, awaiting a sign from the majordomo. The courtiers were mostly European, for not many Americans had the patience to put up with Fritz-Heinrich’s associates and their affected ways. That was one of the things Serafina had learned since her arrival in America. Even the most powerful Americans did not care to flaunt their authority. Such mannerisms were seen as shades of the past they had cast off with their Declaration of Independence.
This meant only two types of Americans joined in such formal assemblies. Some were operators, as they were known here. Smelling of hair oil and greed, they weaseled their way in to further their nefarious profit schemes.
Others were there by order of someone more powerful. These diplomats were easy to identify, for they were the only ones all in black, carrying stovepipe hats at their sides. Desperately eager to be gone, they stood in stiff isolation, awaiting their turn before the dais.
Serafina was one of the few ladies in the chamber who did not wear a powdered white wig. Her blond hair was covered with a short white mantilla. From behind her lacy screen, Serafina studied the gathering. Once they had returned to the hotel she intended to work on several drawings of these people and the royal setting. And as ever, Mary would beg for every scrap of detail about what she had observed.
Before crossing the Atlantic with Serafina, Mary had been in service at the household of William Wilberforce. She had used her free Saturdays and Sundays to study in one of the schools Wilberforce had established. He had arranged for space in churches to teach reading, writing, and Bible during times the sanctuaries were not in use. For many of those from Mary’s social class, it was their only opportunity for proper schooling. Mary’s ambition was to become a private secretary. She had accepted the offer to travel to America as a step toward leaving the restrictive British class system behind.
Serafina’s Venetian parents, as warmhearted and tolerant as they were, couldn’t help but be concerned with the casual friendship between Serafina and the woman they viewed as merely their daughter’s maid. Serafina did not try to explain that Mary had initially been Serafina’s only female companion her own age. Serafina was gradually making new friends at church, but she saw that as no reason to give up someone she had come to call a friend.
Mary responded with a quiet intimacy that revealed many things normally unseen by someone of Serafina’s standing. Mary knew that Serafina, in the dark days after discovering her lover was both a scoundrel and a liar, had served as chambermaid in an English Wiltshire manor. The result was that Mary treated Serafina in two distinct manners. In public, she was the demure and silent maid. In private, Mary revealed a wit and intelligence that was hidden to Serafina’s parents. Serafina often reflected on these secret times, noting how much was lost by being imprisoned within wealth and social standing.
One of the confidences Mary had shared with Serafina had been the rather obvious fact that Prince Fritz-Heinrich was not well loved among his staff. Quite the contrary.
Serafina looked again around the hall as the line she was in moved forward. Her parents’ turn to be presented to the prince was at hand.
Serafina could feel the legate’s gaze upon her. She kept her eyes firmly fastened upon the marble floor at her feet.
Alessandro Gavi was speaking in High German, as the legate required. “Once again, Highness, I apologize for our swift departure. But—”
“I can hardly accept such an apology, Herr Gavi. It was a serious breach of protocol. Particularly as I personally invited you to remain as my guest.”
Serafina’s father bowed low. “We have faced dire threats, Highness.”
The prince used a few of his sniffs as disdainful punctuation marks. “Where, pray tell? Who is the one who dares suggest that an honored guest would not be safe in my home?” He sat forward in his chair to bore holes in the unfortunate Alessandro Gavi.
“M-my personal aide and guard, sire.”
“Show him to me. Is he here?”
“In the hall, Highness. But—”
“Bring him forth immediately!” The legate waved a lace-embroidered handkerchief at his hovering aide. “Have him attend me this instant!”
“He is rather rough-edged, Highness,” her father warned.
“What else can one expect from this disorderly and loutish nation. How is he known?”
“John Falconer, Highness.”
“A common sort of name.” The legate sniffed again and dabbed at his nose with the handkerchief. “Your daughter is with you this day, I see.”
“Indeed, Highness.”
“Step forward, child. Remove your veil. There, that is better. What is your name again? Forgive me, the pressures of this office . . .”
“Serafina, Highness.”
“Of course. Such a delightfully Italian name.” Another sniff. “You speak German, I take it.”
“Yes, Highness.”
“Of course you would. Coming from a proper family, as you do.” Though Serafina’s gaze remained demurely down- ward, she could feel the stare from the legate. “Tell me, child, are you betrothed?”
She remained silent.
“Your daughter does not know how to properly answer her superiors, Herr Gavi?”
“She is not betrothed, Highness.”
“Is that a fact. And such a lovely flower. Speak, Miss Gavi. Your parents tell me you were ill upon your arrival. You are better now, I trust.”
Serafina remembered this was the explanation her parents had given for her not attending court. Now that she stood before the legate, there because they had all been so ordered, Serafina understood why her parents had been desperate to keep her out of sight. “Thank you for your concern, Highness.”
“Tell me how you occupy your hours.”
“My daughter is an artist, Highness,” her father inserted.
“Permit her to answer for herself. An artist, forsooth. Do you paint? Sculpt?”
“I currently work mostly with charcoals or pen and ink, sire. But I also use oils and watercolors.”
“Then you must attend me,” the legate murmured as the doors at the hall’s far end swished open. “I should be ever so grateful for a sample of your skills.”
Serafina caught the nuance of the words, enough to bring a flush to her cheeks and draw her focus from the floor. She met the legate’s gaze as steadily as she could manage and replied, “I should be honored, Highness.” She gave a careful pause, then added, “To sketch or paint your wife.”
The legate’s features turned to stone. “I see your daughter has inherited her father’s impudence.”
Alessandro Gavi bowed once more. “We count ourselves among the Austrian court’s most loyal citizens.”
The man quirked an eyebrow at the absence of the proper address. “Vienna’s court,” he said meaningfully, “and not my own?”
“We are loyal subjects of the king,” Alessandro Gavi replied stolidly.
The prince flicked his fingers and sniffed dismissively as Falconer approached. Serafina curtsied with her mother, and together the three of them backed off a pace.
The prince’s aide carried a long staff leafed in gold and tipped with a carved crown. He tapped the marble floor three paces away from the throne, signifying that Falconer was to approach no farther. He announced in English, “John Falconer, Your Highness.”
“Indeed.” The prince waited. Along with the entire gathering. John Falconer planted himself before the legate, removed his hat and held it to his side, stared back at the man upon the gilded throne, and waited.
The aide snapped, “You shall bow before His Highness.”
Falconer turned toward the courtier. Whatever he revealed to the white-wigged man was enough to cause the man to falter, and he swallowed noisily.
The prince sniffed, then spoke in accented English, “Well, it is scarcely a surprise to meet ruffians in this land who have yet to learn the proper courtesies of a European court. From a nation far older and more civilized—”
“All men are equal in our land” came a retort from down the hall.
The prince flushed with rage. “Who said that? Who?” When the room remained silent, he rose to his feet and cried, “The embassy of a recognized country is
not
your land!”
He glared out over the gathering. When no one responded, he subsided into his throne. Like all the other Europeans, including Serafina’s father, Prince Fritz-Heinrich wore the clothing of the Austrian court. His pastel long coat had gold buttons, and his powdered wig was almost as ornate as his embroidered vest. His tight pants, tucked into high boots with tassels of spun gold, revealed a potbelly that the waistcoat could not fully enclose.
Prince Fritz-Heinrich demanded of Falconer, “Well? What do you have to say for yourself?”
“You were the one who asked to see me.”
The courtier rapped out, “You will address the prince as sire or Highness!”
Falconer glanced over a second time. He smiled as he added, “Sire.”
Serafina found herself seeing Falconer through the eyes of those gathered. It was not merely his size, though he was perhaps half again as tall as the prince and ten times the man in strength. It was his
presence
. The prince might storm and squall all he wished, but Falconer remained untouched. Falconer was unique, and never had the fact been more evident than here, among this gathering of powdered wigs and ceremonial swords. Falconer was powerful both in body and in spirit. He emanated a force that defied them even when he stood as he did now, silent and grave, his internal musings masked.
“So,” the prince finally said. “You claim to have seen danger.”
“That is correct.” The pause was long enough to turn the next word into a slur. “Sire.”
“What was it, then? A masked man? An attacking force?” The legate’s sneer was undisguised. “Pirates such as yourself?”
Falconer revealed nothing, neither in voice nor face. “Three armed men outside the guest cottage.”
The legate’s gaze slid over to rest upon Serafina. “We certainly can’t permit such lovely guests as these to come under any threat, now, can we? No matter how mythical the claim, or absurd—”
Falconer stepped forward and slightly toward the Gavis, between the legate and Serafina. “Three men,” he repeated. “Armed.”
“Here now!” The courtier used his staff to tap the floor between Falconer’s feet. “Return to your station!”
Falconer lifted one boot and stomped down upon the staff. The power of his thrust was enough to shatter the staff in two.
The entire hall gasped.
Falconer stepped forward until he towered over the chair. The legate crawled farther into his chair and cried, “Get back, you beast!”
“Three men,” Falconer repeated, only now his voice had risen to the level of command. It echoed through the chamber like thunder, like the roll of distant cannons. “And if you are as wise as you would like to claim, you will tell these attackers precisely what I say to you now.”
“Are you deaf?” The legate motioned furiously to his courtier. “I
command
you to—”
“You will warn them that if anyone ever seeks to harm these people in my protection, I will hunt them down. I have placed myself under oaths. But I fear I might forget them if ever harm were to come to these three.”
Falconer leaned forward closer still. “Those few friends I have will come to no harm on my watch.”
He now turned to the Gavis, and for a brief instant Serafina saw the man’s power unleashed. She shivered from relief that he did not aim his rage at her. As well as from the knowledge that she had herself caused this fury to come forth.
Falconer motioned quietly for their departure.
Alessandro Gavi bowed toward the throne. “Thank you for your time, Highness.”
Serafina curtsied with her mother. No sound was made as they departed, shepherded by Falconer.
Near the back of the room, Serafina observed an American diplomat sweep off his hat at Falconer’s passing and give an admiring salute. She was sure the gesture was not lost on the prince, and she shivered again.
Falconer stalked ahead of the Gavi family as he led them back to the hotel. The weather was warm for the first week in March, with a wet wind blowing hard down the length of Pennsylvania Avenue. They could have hailed a passing hackney, but the hotel was visible from the front steps of the legate’s manor. Serafina’s parents followed behind Falconer, speaking in low, terse fragments. She knew they were worried about her. They had remained uncertain about how to treat her ever since she had joined them in Washington. She knew the relationship had changed dramatically and would never go back to the way it had been. Though it pained her immensely to see their attitude toward Falconer, the only way she knew to improve matters was to be a dutiful daughter.
But she was no longer a child. And what was more important, her parents knew this. They had seen the measure of her willful nature, the lengths to which she could be driven by passion and supposed love. They feared causing her to break away once more. They had yet to understand the profound changes that had come about during her time away from them. The most significant of those was her coming to faith. The second was her gradual recognition of the unselfish love of a good man, though she could not allow herself to accept it.
Brown’s Indian Queen Hotel was considered the finest in all Washington. The seven downstairs parlors were all paneled in oiled cherrywood, with fine carpets, velvet drapes, and plush settees. The walls held portraits of twenty-five Indian chiefs who had stayed in the hotel since 1810, there to meet the president and discuss treaty terms with the American government. Many visitors to Washington stopped by the hotel to admire the unusual collection of portraits and to enjoy a fine meal in the restaurant.
