Fire at Midnight (31 page)

A young chambermaid rushed into the kitchen, face flushed with excitement. She thrust a folded, sealed piece of parchment at Rachael.

“From the Lady Eleanor,” she announced with importance.

Rachael frowned as she broke the wax seal and unfolded the paper. The young maid avidly watched her face for some clue of the contents of the note as she read Eleanor’s request that they meet.

“The lady awaits you in the second floor parlor.”

Rachael turned the letter over as the young servant beckoned for her to follow.

The hall smelled of roses. Not of one bud, but a distillation of many potent flowers captured in full bloom.

As Rachael crossed from the outer hall into the parlor, her eyes swept the room, expecting to find vases filled with flowers, but there were no containers filled with flowers of any kind. Nor was there anyone in the parlor.

The scent was almost a tangible presence, as was the handsome portrait that hung centered upon a far wall, softly lit by glowing lamps on either side. Rachael hesitated at the door, confronted by the irrational urge to flee. What did Eleanor so urgently require of her?

Rachael’s eyes scanned the well-appointed room. Old tapestries depicting forest scenes decorated the walls, and an extensive teapot collection of glazed stoneware and Chinese porcelain rested in a gilded cabinet. Vibrant damask and velvet fabrics covered comfortable furnishings.

She looked again at the portrait, drawn by a vague sense of recognition. It was a masterfully executed oil, complemented by a scroll-cut, dark wood frame. The subject was a middle-aged woman, soft-eyed and reflective, thin lips turned down at the corners as if from some abiding sadness.

The melancholy matron in the portrait was not someone she knew, yet Rachael was drawn to the painting, steps tentative and fueled by a sense of discovery. She came close enough to view the network of brushstrokes that formed the whole. At this proximity, the likeness was very realistic; even pores and eyelashes were visible.

Rachael stared, bewildered, jaw becoming slack as she envisioned the comely, affluently attired lady in a different guise; slightly blowsy and clad in the humble attire of a servant. There was no mistaking the wan, preoccupied expression, or the handsome features.

“Quite an amazing likeness, don’t you agree?”

Startled by the familiar voice, Rachael spun to face the woman who had entered the room. The elegantly clad, self-possessed lady bore little more than a faint resemblance to the frumpish, nondescript caretaker from Sebastién’s modest cottage.

So, this is Eleanor. This is Phillip’s intended bride and Tarry’s stepmother-to-be. Rachael’s mind raced as it cleared of shock. Jacques’s mother. Sebastién’s mother.

Eleanor moved toward Rachael as if intending to embrace her, but Rachael backed away,.

“You are owed an explanation,” Eleanor said with a sigh, gray eyes intent upon Rachael’s face.

“Not I,” Rachael said. “You owe
your son
an explanation, madame!”

“I never intended to deceive anyone,” Eleanor said. She uttered a small sound of distress and sank down onto a settee.

“How could you? You’ve only justified his mistrust of you,” Rachael said.

Eleanor winced and bowed her head.

“Surely you knew his feelings; you share his past.”

“His ‘past,’” Eleanor repeated bitterly. “His past is no more than a fabrication by a vengeful old man! I know Sebastién believes that I killed his father and then abandoned him, but that is not the truth!”

“Then why did you approach him as a stranger instead of revealing your identity?”

Eleanor dragged her hand across her eyes. “Had you been in my place, would you have told him who you were?”

“Were you afraid of him because of his reputation as a wrecker?”

“No, not that,” Eleanor sniffed, indignant at the question. “His reputation has several authors, your uncle and Jacques among them. I never believed he was a wrecker. I was afraid that he would reject me. I wanted him to know me and then find the right moment to challenge what his grandfather had told him. I planned to tell him who I was, but—”

“Jacques holds him responsible for crimes I know were committed by my uncle. And now his fate rests in his brother’s hands.”

“Jacques does not have the means to harm his brother. He has no proof—”

“Sebastién has been arrested! Your son awaits trial and execution.”

Rachael detailed the charges against Sebastién in a hushed voice, and was dismayed when Eleanor responded with an unladylike snort of amusement.

“Jacques will have an easier time proving that he is a wrecker,” Eleanor said lightly.

“At the very least, he will be tried as a kidnapper. James fell into Victor’s hands after being abducted by Sebastién.”

Eleanor stared, her expression one of incomprehension. “Your brother has not come to any harm, Rachael,” she said. “To my knowledge, James never left London. The infant left at the cottage was a female. Phillip will know where your brother is.”

It was the truth. In her heart, she knew it, and she had withdrawn her trust at the time Sebastién had needed it most.
“What remains unsaid will harm us
,” he had told her at the lighthouse. She had stopped him from speaking when he would have confessed the truth.

“You must come with me to Cornwall to save your son.”

“Do you honestly believe he would accept my help now?”

“Your son is a proud man, but he is not a fool. He wants to live. This is your opportunity to redeem yourself.”

“And how will Jacques react to my intervention?” Eleanor twisted her hands.

“I see that Jacques has your full support,” Rachael charged. She moved to the door. “Good day, Mrs. Falconer,” she said.

“Rachael, I have not decided anything yet,” Eleanor called after her.

Rachael spoke without turning to face Eleanor again. “Madame, I expect that your son is quite used to being abandoned by you.”

Rachael hired the services of a hackney coach to take her home to Cornwall. As he had prospered, her father had invested in property, and her family had spent eight months of the year in Cornwall and the rest of the year in London.

Winter had arrested the wild growth of shrubbery that bordered the modest estate. Either vandals or the storm had broken all the ground floor windows.

Rachael found a key to a servants’ entrance hidden under a large white urn at the back of the garden and used it to gain entry to the kitchen area. The faint odor of spices lingered like long forgotten memories. Staples still lined dusty pantry shelves.

She found a lantern and coaxed a dull glow from it. As she toured the house, she felt a renewal of grief. James had been born here. She had no idea where he was now, or if he would ever return. If only they had remained here after her father’s death rather than allowing Victor to move them south under his care.

Shadows bent across the walls, and Rachael half-expected to encounter a ghost at every turn, but the house was empty.
She
was empty, and alone. She had never experienced anything like the bond she had shared with Sebastién. If he died, her soul would wither and die, and what remained would be a brittle shell.

Rachael was so wrapped up in her musings that she did not hear the rapping at the door for several minutes. She answered the summons with caution, expecting a curious neighbor, a banker inquiring after the property, or even a beggar pleading for alms.

The individual at the door was a resplendently robed man of the cloth. He was olive-skinned, no more than forty, with a beaming smile that revealed very white teeth, a wide gap between the front two. His slender nose tilted upward at the tip, and he had a small birthmark in the hollow of one cheek. A silver crucifix dangled nearly to his abdomen. He wore spectacles, and good humor and intelligence animated the warm brown eyes behind the lenses. Rachael curtsied and stammered a shy greeting, ushering him inside.

“Please accept my apology, Father,” she said. “I have nothing to offer as refreshment. I’ve been in London and have only just returned.”

He casually wiped away an accumulation of dirt on a chair before he sat down.

Rachael took the chair opposite him, and folded her hands in her lap.

Seeing her unease, the cleric leaned forward, placing a cool hand upon hers.

“I had a hunch you might return home. Perhaps something stronger than intuition,” he amended with a smile, fingers touching the crucifix. “I am in need of your aid, Miss Penrose.”

She watched his short, fleshy fingers pat the cross. Then his hand dropped away, and he arranged the skirts of his heavy robes, as if reluctant to broach the subject he had come to discuss.

“I would be pleased to help you, if I can,” she prodded.

“I must confess I am not certain you will want to aid me if you consider Sebastién Falconer your enemy.”

“Sebastién? No, he is not my enemy. Of course I will help you …”

He cleared his throat. “I do not wish to mislead you. I am speaking of aid in the spiritual sense. I understand the man is destined to die.” At her crestfallen expression, he scooted closer to her and placed his hands over hers. “I am Father Porter, and I am here on behalf of a young parish priest in Black Head. Do you know the place?”

Rachael’s eyes swept over the cassock, then returned to the hands that held hers, and she managed a small sound of affirmation. Porter had dashed her fragile hope that forces were being assembled to save Sebastién. Her enthusiasm for the priest’s mission had fled, and she struggled against the impolitic urge to ask him to leave.

“Yes, I know it,” she said dully.

“My duty does not lie with Falconer, but with the priest assigned to minister to him.”

A glimmer of light struck her eyes when he released her hand and produced a folded piece of parchment with a broken seal.

“This note comes from a newly ordained priest in Black Head. The young cleric is distressed by his inability to bring any measure of comfort to ‘the incarcerated Frenchman,’ as it says here. He appeals to me for aid. I fear that if I cannot discover how to advise him, Mr. Falconer will die with his soul in turmoil, and my young priest may be disillusioned enough to abandon his calling.”

Porter handed the letter to Rachael. It confirmed that the young priest felt his failure keenly. There was a specific request that Father Porter help him locate someone who knew the man well enough to establish a way to communicate with the withdrawn Frenchman.

“So, the trial is to be held in Black Head,” she mused and glanced up at the priest. “An innocent man is being tried,” she told him. “How do you go about reconciling a man to an unjust execution?”

“If you know he is innocent, why were you in London when he is on trial in Black Head?”

“His brother sent me there. His plan is to try and execute Sebastién in secret before anyone can vouch for his innocence. If you had not come today, I would not have known the location of the trial. She reached out and touched his hand on impulse. Her fingers touched a cool, hard surface. “Even so, it may be too late. There is a ledger that proves Sebastién is not a wrecker, but how can he prove he did not kill James?”

Rachael raised her head and realized, from the expression on Porter’s face, her ramblings made no sense at all to him.

“It is such a long story, Father.” She sighed. He smiled. “I am told I am a good listener.”

Full darkness descended while Rachael guided Father Porter through the labyrinth of her memories. Now she was alone in the dark, drafty house. She curled up on the parlor sofa with the lantern on the floor beside, but, although she was weary, sleep would not come. Rachael heard every creak of the settling house and the bay of every lonely animal, with her thoughts drifting back to the afternoon spent in the company of the priest. As she lay with knees bent upon the sofa, she suddenly felt uneasy.

Her unconscious mind had seized upon the contradiction almost at once, directing her eyes again and again to the short, fleshy fingers of the priest.

In her mind’s eye, she again saw the ornate, expensive rings on the third and fourth fingers of Father Porter’s right hand; overlooked clues to an identity the man had otherwise taken pains to conceal.