The Night Angel (35 page)

But when Mary opened the front door, they all heard the officious voice announce in English, “Her Royal Highness, to see Miss Serafina Gavi.”

Her Royal Highness, Princess Margarethe von Hapsburg, was a woman of such majesty that not even her diminutive stature could diminish her authority. She swept into the parlor, all four foot ten of her, her height augmented by a formal wig and shoes heeled in four inches of cork. She wore a brocaded gown with loops of genuine pearls on the bodice. Her powdered cheek was adorned with a painted beauty mark.

She examined the astonished gathering, then announced in heavily accented English, “I wish to see your body of work for myself, Miss Gavi.”

“It-it is hardly a body of work, I must clarify, Your Highness.” Serafina dropped a curtsy. “I have been laboring on it only for a few weeks.”

“Nonetheless I wish to see what you are doing.” She nodded to the others. “I request that you show it to me, please.”

Once inside the atelier, Princess Margarethe ignored Serafina entirely. Her inspection took longer than that of the legate’s aide. She spent a full five minutes in front of the portrait of the infant, then spoke for the first time since entering the room. “The child is dead?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Who commissioned the painting? The parents?”

“No one, ma’am. That is, Mr. Baring’s mother is a friend of the family. She asked me, in a way, that is . . .”

“Do go on.”

Serafina took a breath. “She was very concerned about the mother, who is Mrs. Baring’s maid. She asked me to attend the funeral and . . . and to do what I could.”

The powder nearly masked the woman’s features, but her eyes revealed genuine sympathy. “I should say you have done a very great deal, Miss Gavi.”

“Thank you, Your Highness.”

She moved on to the next painting. Her gaze rose to Mary, then returned to inspecting the watercolor of the couple. “These are servants?”

“And friends, ma’am.”

“Yes, your affection for them is most evident.”

“Your Highness,” Bettina now asked, “would you take tea?”

“Thank you, Mrs. Gavi, but I shall not be staying much longer.” She gathered her dress close to her so as not to brush against the easels as she returned to the center of the room. “So, Miss Gavi. I understand you have requested a rather novel form of compensation for your services.”

“I meant no offense, madam.”

“Is that so?” The princess glanced at Alessandro. “Your family seems rather adept at irritating my husband and his entourage.”

Her father gave a formal bow. “Nothing could be further from our intentions, Your Highness.”

“Nonetheless, it has happened.” Yet the princess did not seem irritated. “Why is it, Miss Gavi, that your parents have not arranged for you a marriage?”

Serafina considered several responses, yet the direct question left her unable to answer.

It was her mother who responded, “We did, at one point, madam. It was a mistake. A most serious one, I’m afraid.”

“Then you are as wise a woman as your daughter is talented, Mrs. Gavi. My own marriage was arranged. It was deemed an important union between two rival clans. Everyone has been most satisfied by the results. Everyone, that is . . .”

The princess let the silence hang in the air between them for a moment. Then, “What is the name of the man whom my husband insists does not exist?”

“Vladimir, Your Highness.”

She raised her voice. “Johann!”

The attendant stationed by the front door replied, “Your Highness.”

“Bring the box with my husband’s royal seal.”

“At once, Your Highness.”

She said to Serafina, “I assume you have proper paper and quill, Miss Gavi?”

Hastily Serafina fetched a sheet of woven paper, her finest quill, and the bottle of India ink. Nathan and her father led her out to the dining table and held the chair for the princess to seat herself. She wrote with a fair hand and signed with a flourish. She leaned back, inviting Alessandro to read the document. “I should think that would resolve any doubts which might arise,” she said.

For once, Alessandro’s emotions overcame his diplomatic polish. “I-I am speechless, madam.”

“A candle, if you please.”

Nathan was already bringing a candle over to her. She held a block of red sealing wax over the paper’s right bottom corner. When a palm-sized puddle had formed, she accepted the royal seal from her attendant, who had returned from the carriage bearing an embossed rosewood box. She pressed firmly, then affixed a royal ribbon of Hapsburg gold and black and red to its edge. “That will be all, Johann.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

When he had retired, she rose and handed the paper to Serafina. “Payment in full, Miss Gavi.”

“M-madam, I-I don’t know what to say.”

“Say tomorrow, at eleven of the clock. As your presence is less than welcome at my residence, I shall return here for the sittings.” The princess turned back to the sketches upon the wall. “I am curious, Miss Gavi. Why have you not released the portraits? They are clearly finished.”

The moment would permit only total honesty. “Their full mystery is not yet revealed, madam.”

“What mystery would that be?”

“I-I do not yet know.”

She examined the younger woman. “How very interesting.” The princess gathered up her skirts. “Until tomorrow.”

On the fourth day after Falconer’s departure from Salem, the clouds gathered and at dusk the storm struck. The seven travelers overnighting in the Fremdehaus were subdued at dinner. Perhaps it was the thunder and the torrential rain, but Ada did not think so. Her own somber demeanor the last few days had permeated the inn, or so it seemed to her. Even her son was less energetic and vivacious. Matt set to his nighttime chores as usual, but the smile was gone. When she came from the kitchen to call him to bed, she found him kneeling on the window bench, staring out at the dark and the rain.

Their private family rooms were on the top floor, directly under the eaves. The rain beat upon the roof like fists pounding a hollow drum. An hour after Ada had locked the front door and retired, she heard her bedroom door creak open. A figure crept across the floor and hesitated by the side of her bed.

“It’s all right, Kinderling,” she murmured, calling Matt as she had done when he was very small. She pulled aside the covers. “Come get some rest.”

He crawled into bed next to his mother. “Is he safe?”

Ada did not need to ask of whom he spoke. “Falconer is the strongest man I have ever met. If anyone can survive this storm, it is he.”

With the comfort of her son beside her, Ada finally slipped into slumber. But the rain followed her, drumming in her dreams and leaving her filled with unsettling images. They came and went as though illuminated by mental lightning bolts, disappearing so fast she was not awakened. Until, that is, Ada found herself looking down upon Falconer crumpled upon a matting of rotten straw. Lightning flickered somewhere far away, creating stripes across his face, which looked horribly pale. And she was filled with a dread that echoed in the great rolling thunder that filled her dream and the room, a booming sound that rolled on and on and on.

“Mama!”

She awoke with a gasping cry.

“Mama!” Matt was standing beside the bed, shaking her by the shoulder. “Somebody is pounding on our door!”

She pushed herself upright and waited for her heart to calm. “Light a candle, please.”

He scurried to obey. “Is it Falconer?”

She heard the pounding now. It echoed from far below, louder than the torrential rain still beating upon their roof. She forced herself to be calm for her son. “Let me slip into my dressing gown, and we shall go see.”

Most of the doors along the middle floor where their guests lodged were open, revealing vague forms that caught the candlelight as she passed, but she said nothing to them as she continued down the stairs.

Matt was already standing with his hand upon the door’s latch when she arrived downstairs. She clutched her robe up tight to her neck, took as great a breath as she could manage, and nodded to her son.

As soon as Matt unlatched the door, it flew open to reveal one of the village’s night guards. He touched the rim of his dripping hat. “Forgive me, Mrs. Hart. But a rider came down from the hills with word I thought you should hear.”

He stepped to the side so she could see the dark face looking up at her from the base of the stoop. She clutched the stair railing. “Joseph!”

“They done got him, Miz Ada,” Joseph groaned. He was clearly exhausted. “The bad men took him away.”

Matt began to cry, and the sound pierced her own despair. She had to be strong. “Matt! Son, go light the fire.”

“Mama, he says Falconer—”

“Listen to me!” Her voice was just sharp enough to help the young boy focus on the here and now. She moved forward, ushering the two men into her home. “We must dry these men off and feed them something warm. We will hear Joseph’s story and then we will pray. And the good Lord will tell us what to do.”

“We’re wet right to the bone, Mrs. Hart,” the guard protested.

“Which is precisely why you must enter right this instant. Take off your boots and leave them on the stoop. Where is your partner this night?”

“I already sent him for the mayor.”

The mayor of Salem served also as the captain of the guard. “Very good. Now both of you, hurry into the pantry. Matt will show you the way.” She was already climbing the stairs again. “I must go find something dry for you to put on.”

Falconer found the rain to be by far the most difficult aspect of his imprisonment.

He endured the poundings in his skull, from Joyner’s fist and from striking a rock upon falling. He accepted what they offered as food. He tolerated the cell’s confines. He bore the endless hours. His timepiece was now strapped to the jailer’s filthy coveralls, and his cell had no window, so his only means of counting time was the jailer’s jangling keys as he made his hourly passage. This he endured as well.

But the rain was indeed a cruel torment.

The Danville prison was housed in a converted stable adjoining the town hall. Brick walls formed three sides, with bars fronting the central aisle. Rain poured through the leaky roof. The air was thick with moisture and mildew and other foul odors.

The jail’s only other occupant was a horse thief who had been injured in his capture. After tending the thief ’s wounds, the doctor stopped in to visit with Falconer. The doc had him turn around to inspect the cut on his head. His touch was far more delicate than his voice. “It true what they’re saying, you’ve been busy freeing slaves?”

“It is.”

“Better work on your defense is all I got to say. You speak those words to the circuit judge, he won’t have any choice but order you to dance from a noose.”

“If that is God’s will.”

The jailer standing just outside the cell snorted his derision. “I seen all kindsa men go looking for God when it was too late.”

Falconer waited as the doctor applied his ointment, then said, “It’s never too late, brother.”

“I ain’t no brother of yourn, you can bet your life on that.”

Falconer was not going to argue. “I would count it a great kindness if you would please bring me the Bible from my saddlebags.”

“Weren’t no bags brought in with you, just the clothes you’re wearing and nothing else.” To mock him, the jailer drew out Falconer’s watch and flicked open the face. “You gonna be much longer, Doc?”

“Why, you got something better to do?”

The jailer grunted and walked away, keys rattling.

“How long have I been in here?” Falconer asked.

“Five days, and it’s rained the entire time.” The doctor motioned for Falconer to turn back to face him. “You got a fierce lump back there. You say you’d like a Bible?”

“Sir, I would count it as a great boon.”

“I don’t like the idea of denying a man the Word. I’ll see what I can do.” The doctor walked to the door. “You strike me as an uncommon man. I haven’t seen many in here who’d warrant a second chance. But when it comes your time to stand before the judge, I shall pray that our Lord finds room in His realm for a miracle.”