The Solitary Envoy (16 page)
When neither of the women chose to respond, Erica nodded. “I thought as much. Good day.”
Gareth and the driver handed her valises up to the carriage’s driver. Gareth’s man turned his back on Erica’s offered coin and returned to his carriage. Gareth, however, stood upon the emerald square and waited as she boarded.
Erica said to the driver, “I wish to go to the United States Embassy.”
“Very good, miss.”
The driver clicked once and flicked his reins, and the horse drew away. Erica glanced back, then immediately wished she had not. For Gareth remained as he was, standing foursquare upon the green, watching her. There was a defenselessness about him, a proud man brought low through his own willingness. A man who would neither defend himself nor deflect her verbal attack. A man who seemed to apologize just by his stance.
Erica set her jaw. Why should she feel such regret over having spoken nothing but the truth?
Erica’s carriage took a series of broad lanes leading north from Parliament Square, past grand plazas and impressive buildings. They entered Piccadilly Circus, which was not home to any festival as she had once imagined but was simply a name derived from the frilly collar called a pickadil and the Latin word for circle. A spider web of lanes spread out in all directions. Innumerable carriages made their way around the central fountain, while the sidewalks were packed with well-heeled pedestrians.
The circus opened onto a boulevard named Piccadilly as well. The street was lined on the south by a well-tended park and on the north by shiny new mansions. The United States Embassy occupied a manor about midway up the grand boulevard.
Erica gave her name to the porter stationed by the gate lodge. The man tipped his hat in recognition and scurried to help the driver unload her cases. She paid the driver and followed the porter, extremely grateful for the escort. The manor’s drive was filled with gentlemen, nearly a hundred of them she guessed, standing in tight clusters and smoking their long clay pipes.
Still more gentlemen lined the broad staircase leading to the tall entrance doors, as well as the building’s front foyer. Four doors led off this vestibule, three of which were shut. A secretary’s desk was stationed before each door. Men hovered about the three desks, talking in urgent whispers. The foyer’s rear double doors were open, revealing a large open room very similar to the one in which the Langston clerks once worked. Embassy officials rushed back and forth, important and urgent in their manner and speech.
Erica found herself strangely reassured by the air of tension that surrounded the entire ground floor. Clearly these were men of power and wealth. They would only give their time to stand and wait here if they felt that there was something to be gained. The idea gave her hope that her mission too might result in her obtaining justice for her family’s cause.
The porter led her up a sweeping circular staircase to yet another set of double doors. These were quite new, Erica realized, because she could still smell the fresh-cut timber and paint. The doors were very heavy, and the wall both solid and thick. The porter shut the door behind her, and the atmosphere abruptly changed. Gone were the noise and the tobacco smoke and the huddled conversations. In their place were the smell of fresh-baked bread and the sound of a child’s laughter.
“I’ll just go see to your other cases, miss.”
Erica took that as a signal and reached for her purse. “Wait just a moment, let me see …”
“That won’t be necessary, miss.”
“But I insist.”
“Mr. Aldridge doesn’t permit such, miss.” He touched the rim of his bowler. “Won’t be a moment.”
A new voice piped up from behind her. “Hello. Are you my new governess?”
Erica turned to face a young redheaded girl of perhaps eight. She had a lively expression and the poise of one born to rule … and she looked so much like Abigail Cutter that Erica found all hint of reserve vanishing. In the midst of so much turmoil and strangeness and fear it was so good to see a familiar face—even if it did belong to a total stranger.
It seemed the most natural thing in the world to drop to her knees so that she was at the same level as the child. “No, I am afraid I am not. But I must say it would be my great pleasure to teach a young lady as poised and intelligent as you.”
The child did indeed have Abigail’s pointed chin, as well as the same abrupt cut of her nose and the keen blue eyes. “My mother says I am far more trouble than any two girls should ever be.”
“I’m certain she would not say any such thing.”
“But she does. She says I’m the reason why our first governess ran away to get married. She says if I were not such a handful, our life here would go much smoother.”
A woman’s voice interrupted. “You have said enough, Abbie.”
“But I was just explaining to the new governess—”
“I said that was enough,” she said gently.
Erica stood up to greet the woman she presumed to be Abbie’s mother. “Mrs. Aldridge?”
She was a tall woman, comfortably padded by recent childbirth. Her day dress was high-collared and elegant but liberally dusted with flour. She offered her hand. “Yes. Miss Langston? We have been looking forward to your arrival for well over a month now.”
“The journey was endless and horrid.”
Abbie piped up, “Ours was as well. Sixty-one days. I kept a record in my little book. Mama was sick the entire way. She was carrying my baby brother, Horace. Mama would eat because Daddy insisted, but it never stayed down very long. Then—”
“I think our guest understands exactly what transpired, Abbie.” But there was no scolding to the words. “I see you have met my daughter.”
“I have indeed. She is a wonderful child,” Erica said and meant it sincerely.
Abbie looked pleased. “I could show you to your room.”
Her mother asked, “Do you know which one it is?”
“I heard you and Daddy talking about it. She is to have the one beneath the stairs at the back of the house, where the butler would live if we had one. Which we don’t.” She caught her mother’s eyebrows rising and added hastily, “Mama says we need to remember how we have been raised, as proper Americans who don’t need a houseful of servants at our beck and call.”
“I think that is a splendid principle.”
“Oh, good.” The little girl made an effort to heft the largest of Erica’s cases but was relieved to allow Erica to take it from her. She then selected the smaller square traveling case. “Mama is ever so busy, and that worries Papa. She has the new baby and all. I’m not quite certain the baby is worth keeping. He wakes us up at all hours and frets ever so much. But Mama says once a baby arrives we can’t give him back to God. No matter how much bother he is in the middle of the night.”
“I would tell her to be still,” Mrs. Aldridge offered from Erica’s other side, “but it would only be a temporary reprieve.
Sooner or later you will hear every detail, whether you wish to or not.”
“I must tell you,” Erica replied, “your daughter’s company is the brightest and most beautiful gift I have received in weeks.”
Both mother and daughter showed great pleasure at her words. “I can see why my mother thinks so highly of you. You must call me Lavinia.”
“And I am Erica.”
“Does this mean that we are to be friends?” Abbie queried.
“That is for time and God to decide,” Lavinia replied. “But were I pressed, I would think perhaps yes.”
“Oh, good. I haven’t many friends. I did once, but they’re all sixty-one days away, across the Atlantic.” Abbie clutched the square valise with one hand as she pointed up a narrower set of stairs. “Upstairs where we live is ever so far from the garden.
And Mama is always busy now with the baby. Do you have children?”
“No, I am not married.”
“If you were to have a baby like Horace, I think you might wish never to marry and have children. When he cries, his face looks like a stewed prune. And he cries a great deal.”
“Abbie, please.”
“It’s fine. Really.” To Abbie, Erica said, “But what if I could be certain that I might be blessed with a daughter as fine as you?”
The little girl flushed bright pink. “I suppose that might make things all right.”
“Then I guess I shall have to consider finding myself a husband, at some point in time,” Erica said. To her astonishment she found herself blushing. Not at the confession. But because to her surprise she found herself recalling the officer who had stood with such sorrow on his face and watched her carriage disappear.
Gareth Powers, former major in the fusiliers, stood on the balcony overlooking his own shop and tried to remember what he was supposed to be doing.
He had a very full evening ahead of him, what with the news waiting to be written and the bills of lading to be paid and the contacts at Parliament to be seen on the sly…. No matter how he tried, he could not manage to accomplish everything each day required.
And it did not help matters a whit, his standing over the clattering din with his head in such a muddle. But he could not help himself. He stared down at the parchment with its half-finished sentence and couldn’t recall what he had intended to say. The quill in his ink-stained hands dripped India black onto the floor by his feet. His ears were filled with the clattering presses and the cry of his busy mates. All the world waited what next would come from the Powers Press. But all Gareth Powers could think about was an American maiden with flashing brown eyes.
Gareth had torn down the interior walls of the old print shop and opened the printing area into one giant corridor with an open balcony that ran the length of the printing room. There was a small shop in the front that sold pamphlets and books. A cobbler’s house out back had been acquired and turned into a small warehouse. Another hovel, formerly housing a tinker and his family, now served as a sort of barracks. The stables across the rear courtyard had also been purchased and turned into a smallish apartment where he resided. He could afford something much nicer. Gareth’s business now sped pamphlets as far north as Inverness, as well as out to Brussels and Madrid and Berlin. He tried hard not to think of such things, or how his poor spelling and paltry grammar were being read throughout Europe. It only made his task more difficult.
Gareth had two desks. One was housed inside the office he rarely used. It was covered with ledgers and bills of lading and journals and broadsheets and pamphlets written by others, both here and abroad. The other, an old-fashioned scribe’s table perched on tall legs, was situated on the balcony. The table rose at a slant, with an inkpot and stack of parchment resting at the back. The men called this balcony the major’s station and did not mount the stairs unless called. Gareth disliked retreating to his office. He had always led from the center of his battalion, always entered battle first, always stood with his men in the thick of things. At the moment his feet were surrounded with strewn scraps of paper and balled-up pages, as usual. His staff knew better than to touch anything. Often he would be down on his hands and knees, going through what he had written and discarded earlier, searching out a forgotten phrase that might be just right after all.
Outside the rear window, the sky was streaked with a glorious sunset of gold and rosy hues. Smoky pillars rose from London’s narrow chimney pots to join the copper cloud overhead. Gareth turned back to the blank page and wished he knew what to do.
He leaned over the railing and called, “Where’s Daniel?”
“Here, sir!”
“A word, if you please.”
The barrel-chested former gunnery sergeant took the stairs two at a time. “You wanted me, Major?”
“I have asked you a hundred times and more not to call me that.”
“Sorry, sir,” the huge man replied easily. “Won’t happen again.”
“Right. Cast your mind back a ways. The Washington foray.”
“Nasty bit of business that was.”
“We certainly agree on that point. You recall our entry into the city?”
“Like it was yesterday. You marched at the front of the men, same as always. I was shepherding the wagons.”
“So you did not see when we felled the old man.”
“The one you asked me about before, on the troop ship to Oporto?”
“I am astonished you should recall.”
“You asked me to check with the men, see who felled him.”
“And you came up with nothing.”
“At the time.” Daniel hesitated a moment, then added, “Heard later it was McCusker.”
“Did you now.”
“His mates let it slip after he was beyond punishing.”
“That’s it, then.” They had buried McCusker in the rocky soil of northern Spain.
“Hope I didn’t make a mistake in not passing that on.” Daniel gave his beard an idle scratch. “We had more pressing business at the time. Nip and tuck it was, those battles raging on all sides and the Americas so far behind us.”
“No, no, think nothing of it.” Gareth fiddled with his quill. “If you remember, there on the outskirts of Washington someone fired a warehouse.”
“’ Course I do. That fellow came running out of his building carrying buckets. Had words with one of the other sergeants and then proceeded to run through the marching lines. Or tried to.” Daniel shook his head over the tragedies of war. “One thing, Major. It wasn’t our men what set the place ablaze.”
