Saving The Marquise's Granddaughter (29 page)

Her face hardened, but her lips trembled as though begging for another kiss. He could hardly wait for the next one. But he would have to. And he’d have to talk to the priest at the church as soon as he could.

29

Vann pulled Johan aside at the beginning of the workday. “Trouble brewing. I have a bad feeling. Keep watch after dinner.”

“Ja, Master Vann.”
But then I can’t go to St. Joseph’s tonight.
Johan sought out Anton, who was repairing an undercarriage, and Phillip, who was preparing spokes for a wheel. “We need to keep an eye out for mischief makers.”

The day proceeded in a typical fashion, with their usual customers, including the young lady observers, but no newcomers. Street traffic slowed as twilight approached.

Shielding his eyes from the setting sun, Phillip pointed to a cluster of shabbily dressed strangers.

One, with dark darting eyes, looked back at them and a finger of fear jabbed Johan’s chest. “A good breeze and their clothes will blow away.”

Phillip moved closer. “Riffraff from the docks.” His eyes narrowed as the gang gathered around the entrance, near where their employer sat at his desk.

“I don’t like this.” Johan slapped Phillip’s shoulder and jerked his thumb toward the newcomers.

The top of Vann’s grizzled head disappeared.

Behind them, Anton set aside the file he was sharpening.

Three more men appeared from behind a quince bush and joined the huddle.

Johan closed his eyes and prayed.
Oh, Lord, what now?
What good would he be to Suzanne and Sarah if these men attacked him? He clenched his fists, ready.

Phillip grabbed a poker, red-hot from the fire.

Johan shook his head at him.

Phillip ignored him.

Johan knew he was responsible for his own conscience and his actions only. His legs seemed weighted with slag as he forced himself forward, prepared for battle, trying to gain eye contact. “Get away from Master Vann!” Johan yelled. “Now!”

A thin man, shirt peppered with stains, jumped back. When his eyes lighted upon Phillip behind Johan, he scurried away like a rat over the cobblestones.

Johan heard movement behind him.

Anton called out, “What’s your business here?”

Tension eased a little from Johan’s shoulders when he turned and spotted Frances, fists raised.

“I’m leaving—come on!” one of the intruders told another, a beefy man with jowls.

The two departed in haste.

Johan squared his shoulders and spread his legs. There were ten left against five if he counted Vann. Was his son there?

“Just go on out of here unless you have business with me.” Vann’s tone was firm, but Johan heard the fear. “Don’t…”

A thump and a thud followed, and a squat man with massive upper arms separated from the group. He brandished a thick club in his paws.

Vann lay slumped across his counter, his head red with blood.

Behind him, Johan heard rustling. He hoped the others were picking up hammers or punches—something to defend themselves and Vann.

One of the wharf rats called out, “We don’t want any trouble with you men. We just don’t like this African thinking he can be master.” The thick accents announced their recent arrival in the colonies. Scottish perhaps? Vann, himself of three or four nationalities, was the sixth generation of his family here. Not African. These were the worst sort of ignorant men, those bullies ganging together to assault an innocent man.

“Let me at that fool so I can poke his eyes out,” Phillip croaked, the wrinkles on his brow gathering sweat.

They weren’t yet ready. They needed to take them on as a team. He held up one finger to Phillip behind his back, their sign to wait.

Johan cleared his throat. “You don’t work at the tannery, do you?” All that time he had worked extra to redeem Suzanne—it would do him no good if a club struck him down.

Another man laughed, his bloodshot eyes visible even from ten paces. “What does it matter to ye? We’re white men, aren’t we? We should stand up for each other.”

A few of the group cawed out their agreement, but Johan ignored them. “We didn’t seek your help—this is a good man, a kind master. Leave now so we can tend to him.”

One intruder tapped his foot and placed his wiry arms on his hips. He resembled a scarecrow, with his hair sticking out under his hat and his arms and legs too short for his clothes.

Johan would imagine him as such when he fought him. When he drew his blood.

“Not until we’re done helping
Mister
Vann know his place and that his type isn’t needed in Philadelphia.”

Tannery workers’ arms were as big around as their legs, while most of these men looked as if they’d never seen an honest day’s labor.

As Johan took two steps toward them, the stench of cheap ale struck him like a slap. He called over his shoulder, “Phillip, you know what to do for Suzanne, ja? If I fall from one of these
drecksack—
dirt bags.”

The scarecrow raised his small club as Johan heard himself roaring.

Behind him, the others echoed him, picking up the sound and charging toward the men.

Suzanne’s stories of the wild Franks, woodsman warriors resisting the invading Romans, flew through his mind, the pictures vivid. He and the men in animal skins, their faces painted, blended into the thick forest and then launched upon the intruders. Yes, he was running through the Black Forest, chasing off those who dared invade his territory.

As swinging arms whirled, some of the cowards ran, taking their stink with them.

Then the fighting was a blur as he pounded his fists into one man after another, taking three stinging jabs to his face before he grabbed a cudgel and smashed it against the column that supported the entryway, the wood splintering.

The scarecrow, his face white, seemed to blow away with the gust of wind from the river.

Anton lifted one man up by his collar and tossed him onto the rubbish pile.

The big man with the larger club backed away from them, escaping down the street, but not before Johan memorized his face. Anger squeezed Johan’s heart like tongs holding a burning lump of metal.

Then, in stepped another man—Wyatt Scott, fists flying, pounding one of the men before bringing another to his knees and giving Johan a reprieve.

His breaths coming in short bursts, Johan bent over. Like a bellows, he forced himself to slow the opening and closing of his lungs as he curled forward, placing his hands on his thighs to steady himself. Blood mingled with sweat and dripped in dark pools onto the ground.

Now Vann would surely leave this place. His home for generations. Like Johan had departed the Palatinate. This good man would likely flee to those mountains that were said to look so much like those in Johan’s homeland.

Scott wiped blood from his mouth and motioned to Johan. “Come on—those cowards are all gone.”

Johan moved toward the master, a friend even, who’d been so good to him. “We have to help Vann.”

Anton tapped Johan’s back as he eased behind him in the tight space and then lifted Vann’s right arm up over his own shoulder. Johan did the same with the left arm, sharing the load.

“Vann, we move you now.” His head dipped toward Johan’s, smearing blood on his chin as they turned him in a semicircle.

When the carriage shop owner groaned, Phillip laughed nervously. “Such a good sound.”

“Ja.”

“Father!” Vann’s son, Abram, appeared in the doorway.

Johan didn’t want to judge the boy, but where had he been? They lowered Vann to a cot.

Reaching into his pocket, he located his handkerchief, embroidered with a small
fleur de lis
in the corner, one of his mother’s.
Dear Lord, where are they and are they safe?
He resisted the urge to wipe sweat from his own brow as blood dripped from a cut near his eye. Vann’s injuries were far worse and he pressed the cloth into a gash, to staunch the blood flow.

“Better get him a physician,” Scott urged.

“Ja, get Dr. Gill.”

Phillip wiped his hands on his linen breeches, turned, and jogged off toward the physician’s home.

Soon, the Welshman arrived and examined the patient. “Willbeallrightinaweekorso.” With his thick melodic accent, the words were strung together.

“All well in a week or so?” Johan scrunched his eyebrows together.

Phillip lightly touched the physician’s arm. “
Bitte
, please say more slowly.”

“Willow bark for tea.” Gill poured out several packets worth of powder. “For pain and swelling.”

Johan took them. “Ja.”

The physician held out a vial of pungent, greasy ointment. “Rub this salve into his wounds.”

Phillip turned his away and Johan coughed at the odor.

Dr. Gill laughed, and closed and latched his leather medical case. “Strong smell but good results.”

Johan wasn’t sure how to make payment, and Vann was sleeping. He searched for the words, clenched his fists at the embarrassment that tongue-tied him.

Dr. Gill wiped his glasses and looked up at Johan, his brown eyes gentle. “Someone must run Vann’s businesses for him until he heals.”

Abram Vann was too young to run the shop for his father by himself.

Johan’s chest squeezed. “I’ll do what I can to help.”
More work, longer hours, and precious little time for Sarah or Suzanne.

~*~

Two days and Vann still barely stirred.

All the men chipped in to get the orders done, under Johan’s direction.

He left the forge to check with each one to see how they fared.

Phillip stopped him before he could get to the wheelwright shop. “Johan, that surveyor is here. The one we saw sailing to the Jerseys. Come see.”

My peace I give to you.

Those words, spoken to his heart, quenched the gnawing anxiety he’d had in his gut since meeting the Quaker preacher, whom he hadn’t seen again. Johan followed Phillip to Vann’s office.

The man’s navy, dusty frock coat announced he’d ridden long to get there.

Vann’s son peered down at a substantial black leather case, set atop the counter.

“Monsieur, I can afford only a small repair to my case, but it must be sturdy.” He cleared his throat and adjusted his white neck cloth. “My tools are necessary for my occupation, and I cannot risk losing them if they should fall out.”

Abram assessed the man through half-closed eyes. “My father charges a fair price, and you’ve given me no reason as to why I should reduce it.”

The Frenchman turned in Johan’s direction, as though sensing onlookers. His cheeks reddened. “The Quaker teachers sent me here.”

All the steam went out of the master’s son, who’d been schooled by the Quakers. “I see. Why didn’t you say?”

The surveyor eyed Johan nervously as he came within an arm’s length away. This man was the one who’d married them. And he was a surveyor. Not a priest. And not a Quaker minister.
But he is a very good liar and actor.
Johan’s hands clenched. No marriage ceremony had been conducted. Only a drama meant to give comfort to a dying woman and her beloved.

Suzanne was free to do whatever she wished. But that kiss—surely he hadn’t misunderstood its meaning?

The master’s son turned to him. “Johan, I want you to work on these clasps.”

He glared at the surveyor, wishing his eyes could pierce the trickster’s black heart. “Ja
,
I’ll do that, all right.” Johan heard the irritation in his voice.

Abram Vann seemed about to say something to him—probably a caution about his insolent manner.

The surveyor moved closer and gently touched Johan’s arm. “I wanted to ask you the other day when I saw you, but you ran off. Did she live?”

Yanking his arm free, Johan glared at him. “She lived.” What if they had acted as man and wife? Fierce anger raged through him, his arms and hands shaking. “How could you?” He turned and walked away, trying to calm himself.

“
Monsieur Rousch!”

He ignored the fake priest. He needed to go hammer something. When he returned a few moments later, the surveyor had disappeared.

Abram tapped his quill against his ink bottle, releasing a little of the black substance back inside. “How does that man know you and your wife?”

“We…were on the same ship over.”

The young man’s features twitched. “He wishes to speak with you when he returns.”

“Ja. Fine.” He was tempted to visit the ale house after the last several days’ events, but he’d not do so.

“My sister sent for you. Father wants to see you.”

“Now?”

“Yes, go ahead. I’m tallying our receipts and I can manage.”

Johan dipped his chin in farewell and strode off toward the Vanns’ home, a two story white clapboard located nearby, facing the street. Dark green shutters shone in the sun. He mounted the three broad steps and raised the door knocker just as Vann’s pretty daughter opened the door.

“I saw you coming, Mr. Roush.” She motioned for him to come inside. “My father is weak, but he wishes to speak with you.”

Johan followed her into a spacious foyer, the scent of clove-studded oranges wafting from a chinaware bowl set upon a half-circle table abutting the paneled walls.

She led him to an eight panel mahogany door and opened it.

He entered the elegant room, outfitted in blue-and-white bedding, with matching curtains. Delft tile surrounded the fireplace. Vann squinted up at Johan from his massive bed, where he lay buoyed by plump pillows.

The young woman closed the door as she departed.

Purplish blotches still marred Vann’s face, as they did Johan’s own, but his master’s cuts appeared better healed.

With his continuing work, Johan’s abrasions had difficulty healing.

“Come here, Mr. Roush.”

He raised his eyebrows at this salutation. “Ja?” Johan went to his side.

“Johan, when I recover I’m heading out for those blue mountains in Virginia. I’ll start all over. Get myself some land.”

Hair on Johan’s arms stood up. That was his dream—to go to where the low, rolling mountains were swathed in blue mist. To settle in a valley like his home in the Palatinate. But he had his own contract, Suzanne’s, and now Sarah’s care. And if Vann sold his businesses, then might they not be sold to another master, perhaps one who was cruel?