The Solitary Envoy (33 page)
The carriage rocked in time to the road and the wind. The breeze was strong from the north and west, as though designed by a great and invisible hand to press them farther and faster toward their goal. They breakfasted from one of the picnic hampers packed with food meant for the previous day. The other was topside, being devoured by the men deprived of their breakfast by the morning rush.
Erica confessed as she ate, “I am ashamed to be hungry.”
Anne neither asked what she meant nor objected to the sentiment. Instead she handed Erica a slice of apple and said, “For weeks after my husband died, I ate only when ordered to.
Every time I lifted a spoon to my mouth, I felt as though I was being disloyal. It made no sense, not even to me. But I could not deny my feelings merely because they were illogical.”
The day was too beautiful for the burden she carried, the food she ate too splendid. The air was too perfumed by all the flavors of late summer. Through the carriage window Erica watched three families gleaning the remnants of a harvest. Life was far too rich.
She confessed, “I wish I could erase all of yesterday.”
Anne formed a question by the way she cocked her head. “You wish you never made this journey?”
“Yes.” She finished her bit of bread and fresh curds. “Well, that is …”
“Do you wish Gareth had been well and seen this himself? That is your gentleman’s name, is it not?”
“Gareth, yes. But no, I wouldn’t want anyone to see what we observed. I wish it had never happened.”
“But it did happen. It is the situation in our land. Do you wish to blind yourself to what is?”
Erica folded her napkin about the remnants of her meal and set it on the seat.
Yes,
she wanted to say. She wanted the world to go back to how it was … when? Back before her father died. Back before the bankers stole from her family. Back when she was young and safe and such things as this never happened, or if they did, she had no need to learn of them.
Anne waited until she lifted her gaze to say, “You see? Life does not always grant us the goodness we would wish for. But in the midst of these harsh moments, there are gifts to be found. Friendship. Communion with our fellow believers. A greater trust in our Lord. And, if He wills, a purpose to grant the hardship meaning. A mission.”
Erica mulled that over for a time before asking, “How long did it take for it to leave?”
“For what to leave?”
“You said the illogical feelings of guilt finally passed. How long did this require?”
The older woman regarded Erica in a curious fashion. “In my case, it was rather a long time. Several months, in fact.”
“What happened?”
Deliberately Anne wiped her hands, then smoothed the napkin back into her lap. “I met a new friend, by the grace of our Lord. A young lady who needed me.”
When they arrived at London’s outskirts, Erica viewed the scene through different eyes. The city was ringed by squalor and misery. “I don’t know what to do about this, but I must do something.”
“Good,” Anne replied firmly. “That is our nation’s problem, to my mind. We prefer not to see, and when we must, we seek not to feel.”
“Was I a fool to drag us out of bed and hurry us back, do you think?”
“Never for a moment did that enter my mind,” Anne said firmly. “Where do you think we should go first?”
They went straight to the pamphleteer’s. They needed guidance, and they needed to report—though just the thought of recounting what she had seen left Erica’s throat feeling swollen and raw.
But Gareth was not there to greet them. Instead, one of the other workers came out to the carriage and reported that not only was Gareth still ill, but he had been moved to William Wilberforce’s house at Kensington Gore. Anne made no protest as Erica pleaded for them to make all haste.
The Wilberforce home was a large stone house set well back from the road. A grove of mulberry trees formed a stand between the house and the front gates, keeping them from glimpsing most of it until the carriage rounded the gravel drive and pulled up by the portico. Up close it was far less imposing than Erica had feared. Perhaps if the paintwork around the windows were not quite so cracked, or if the front door did not rest partially ajar, or had a trio of earnest young men not chosen that moment to spill down the stairs and hurry away, Erica might have felt more awkward about appearing at a relative stranger’s front door and asking to see a houseguest.
When she alighted from the carriage, Anne decided, “I shall remain here until you see how things are.”
“Very well.”
“Erica.” When she turned back, Anne reached over and took hold of her hand. “Might I share with you the gift I myself have gained from this journey?”
“Of course.”
“When the storms beset you, you must hold on to God with steadfast determination. In time, you will know His purpose. In time.”
Erica leaned forward and embraced the older woman.
Then she mounted the front stairs and rang the bell. She could hear discussion from within, but no one came. A dozen people were seated upon rusting lawn chairs and blankets beneath the mulberry trees, deep in discussion. She wondered about asking them where she should go, but they paid her no mind. Erica pushed the door open and entered.
The two large parlors opening to either side of the central hall were hives of quiet activity. People moved about, talking earnestly and sorting documents. Erica moved to one, then the other. No one even looked her way. It was as though they were so accustomed to people coming and going, and the work they were involved in was so important, they simply had no time to greet every new arrival.
She knocked on the open door of one of the parlors. Eventually a young woman, perhaps her own age or a year older, came up to her. “Yes?”
“I was wondering where I might find the gentleman of the house.”
Someone called from the back without looking up from his papers, “Parliament is still in session. He won’t be back until quite late.”
The young woman asked Erica, “Was Mr. Wilberforce expecting you?”
“No. No, it’s just … Well, actually …”
The woman gave her an inquisitive look.
“I was told Gareth Powers was residing here.”
“That is correct.”
“Is he well?”
“Far from it. But he is mending, or so the doctor tells us.”
Erica caught the faint glimmer in the young woman’s eye.
She fancies him,
Erica realized. And why not? Gareth was a most handsome man. She found her chest squeezed by an icy hand.
The young woman said, “Might I ask your name?”
“Erica Langston.”
The entire room was caught in a sudden silence. Every eye turned her way. A man set down his pile of briefs and rushed over. “You would not be the lady Gareth sent north?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Forgive me, I expected someone older.”
“Might I speak with Gareth?”
The young lady replied, “He is sleeping.”
Erica could not halt the freezing jealousy. She wanted to demand how this woman knew that. She wanted to know how Gareth felt about
her
. It was utterly illogical. She knew that. But nonetheless she found herself unable to form a single coherent thought.
The young man moved up alongside his co-worker and asked, “Did the march take place?”
The question jarred Erica back to vivid clarity. She swallowed. “It did.”
“Did you witness it?”
“I fear so.”
She could hear others moving in close from behind, just as those in this chamber approached. The gentleman said, “We have heard the most terrible rumors.”
“Please, I feel I really must report first to Gareth. After all, he was the one …”
“Of course.” The gentleman slipped by the young woman, who was now studying Erica with less-than-friendly intent. “Follow me.”
The young lady attempted one more protest. “The doctor was with him just minutes ago.”
But the gentleman paid her no mind. Wordlessly he led Erica across the foyer and up the central staircase.
The upstairs rooms were fitted out much like those above the embassy, private quarters set above a very public arena downstairs. A servant led them up yet another set of stairs to the attic rooms. As it happened, the doctor was departing just as they arrived. When Erica asked how Gareth was doing, he blew out his cheeks in exasperation.
“He’s young, he’s fit as a racehorse, and he works himself far too hard. I know this type. He does the labor of ten men and frets when his body complains as it is doing now. How is he faring? As well as any man can who has worn himself down to a nub.”
“But he will become well again,” Erica pleaded.
The doctor examined her keenly. “You are this gentleman’s friend?”
“I would like to think so, yes.”
“Then as soon as he is up and about, have him go to the seaside for a quiet fortnight. Walks along the shore, good wholesome fare, clean country air, that’s what the fellow needs.” The doctor jammed his hat down hard on his head. “That and rest, rest, and more rest.”
When she rounded the doorway and saw Gareth in the plain little room, Erica could not quite stifle a moan. His complexion held the pallor of lingering illness.
He spoke in a voice that was scarcely more than a croak. “Tell me it was not as bad as they say.”
“Oh, Gareth.”
“Tell me the horsemen did not charge into the crowd with their staves at the ready. Tell me the women and children …” He was halted by a coughing fit that seemed to tear at him.
“I don’t think I should tell you anything until you are better.”
“Erica—”
“And you will only grow better with rest. That is what the doctor said.”
The gentleman in the doorway offered, “Mr. Wilberforce went by his printing shop the day before yesterday and found him operating the press himself.”
“There is so much to be told,” Gareth protested weakly. “And all my fellows are run off their feet.”
“Mr. Wilberforce realized that the only way he would ever rest was if someone watched over him day and night,” the young man continued. There was a note of reluctant respect in the gentleman’s words.
“I will tell you nothing,” Erica repeated. “Not now. First you must rest.”
She halted further argument by rising and addressing the butler hovering in the background. “Is there an empty chamber where I might remain for a time?”
“Nothing that befits a lady, miss.” Somewhat ashamedly he led her to a room at the hall’s opposite end. “These upstairs rooms are seldom used.”
The chamber held to a monastic severity. There was a narrow bed, a desk, a single chair, a candlestick, a simple cross upon the wall. Yet as soon as she saw the little table set beneath the window, Erica knew this was where she had been drawn. The sense of pressure she had felt all day became even more concentrated.
She spoke in a low voice to the gentleman. “Please, would you be so kind as to bring me pen and paper and ink?”
“Immediately, Miss Langston.”
“My friend awaits me in the carriage downstairs. Her name is Anne Crowley.” Erica turned back to the window and the little table. “Ask her to join me, please.”
On one level Erica was aware of everything that went on around her. On another she was completely apart. Anne came in and spoke to her, several times in fact. On one occasion she and Anne actually prayed together. Erica refused to turn away from the table but bowed her head over the partially formed words. She prayed because she had to. She did not know the first thing about writing, and she had no idea how difficult the process truly was. She wrote and then she tore up the page. She started over and crumpled up that page as well. Over and over this went, until she was surrounded by tattered little bundles of half-finished thoughts.
Anne did not say a word when Erica rose from the table and walked down the long hallway and opened the door to observe the slumbering Gareth. Erica knew the only thing that might hold Gareth to the bed was knowing his goal was being reached.
Anne came over to stand alongside her. In the silence Erica could hear the rough edge to his breathing. Each intake of breath seemed to tear his chest within. Erica did not object when Anne walked her to the door and back down the long hallway to the little desk. The empty page stared up at her like an accusing hand.
“I do not know if I can do this,” Erica quietly confessed.
“Of course you can.”
“It is so difficult.”
“Many of the important things in life are.” Anne patted her on the shoulder. “Let me go downstairs and brew you a fresh cup of tea.”
Erica sat unmoving and listened to Anne’s descent. At that moment, Gareth seemed far closer than a distant chamber down an unadorned hallway. Erica stared down at the blank sheet of paper and felt the same gentle pressure as before. She knew she should be writing. But how ever could she shape the proper words?
She bowed her head down so far her forehead rested upon the paper.
Show me, Father. If this is indeed your will, make it clear to me how I should proceed. Amen
.
She opened her eyes and raised her head. She stared out the window. But it was not the rather unkempt back garden that she saw. Instead she witnessed anew the horror from St. Peter’s Field.
