The Night Angel Read online

  The

  Night Angel

  HEIRS OF ACADIA

  - FOUR -

  The

  Night Angel

  T. DAVIS BUNN

  ISABELLA BUNN

  The Night Angel

  Copyright © 2006

  T. Davis Bunn and Isabella Bunn

  Cover design by The Design Works Group

  Cover photograph by Stephen Gardner

  Unless otherwise identified, Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owners.

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN 0-7642-0126-3 (Trade Paper)

  ISBN 0-7642-0127-1 (Hardcover)

  ISBN 0-7642-0128-X (Large Print)

  * * *

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Bunn, T. Davis, 1952-

  The night angel / T. Davis Bunn, Isabella Bunn.

  p. cm. — (Heirs of Acadia ; 4)

  Summary: “A new family business partner catches Serafina’s eye and then mysteriously disappears. He is rumored dead, but could he be the mysterious ‘night angel’ freeing slaves with gold?”—Provided by publisher.

  ISBN 0-7642-0127-1 (alk. paper) — ISBN 0-7642-0126-3 (pbk.) — ISBN 0-7642-0128-X (large print pbk.)

  1. Acadians—Fiction. 2. Richmond (Va.)—Fiction. I. Bunn, Isabella. II. Title III. Series: Bunn, T. Davis, 1952- . Heirs of Acadia ; 4.

  PS3552.U4718N54 2006

  813'.54—dc22

  2005032508

  * * *

  For my sister,

  Bunny Matthews,

  who has helped me appreciate

  the artist’s technique

  and spirit

  T. DAVIS BUNN is an award-winning author whose growing list of novels demonstrates the scope and diversity of his writing talent.

  ISABELLA BUNN has been a vital part of his writing success; her research and attention to detail have left their imprint on nearly every story. Their life abroad has provided much inspiration and information for plots and settings. They live near Oxford, England.

  By T. Davis Bunn

  The Gift

  The Book of Hours

  One Shenandoah Winter

  The Quilt

  Tidings of Comfort & Joy

  The Dream Voyagers

  Drummer in the Dark

  The Great Divide

  The Presence

  Riders of the Pale Horse

  To the Ends of the Earth

  Winner Take All

  SONG OF ACADIA*

  The Meeting Place The Birthright

  The Sacred Shore The Distant Beacon

  The Beloved Land

  Another Homecoming *

  Tomorrow’s Dream *

  HEIRS OF ACADIA†

  The Solitary Envoy

  The Innocent Libertine

  The Noble Fugitive

  The Night Angel

  * with Janette Oke

  † with Isabella Bunn

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 1

  March 1834

  John Falconer watched the line of people on the ridge, silhouetted against a leaden sky. When he heard the clank of chains, he knew. He made out a dozen figures locked together. A horseman ambled behind them, reins held loosely in one hand. A leather quirt was tied to the rider’s other wrist and rested upon the saddle. The rider wore a low-brim hat that masked his eyes. But Falconer knew the rider watched the chained group with a predator’s gaze.

  The sun finally managed to pierce the clouds. A golden lance fell upon one of the chained men. His face became illuminated, as though touched by the finger of God.

  The chained man turned then. He looked straight at Falconer.

  And spoke his name aloud.

  Falconer rose from his bed and slipped into his clothes. The actions gave his hands something to do while his heart resumed a normal pace. Moonlight fell through his window, illuminating a room far too cramped for his massive frame. He lit a candle and watched the sputtering flame for a time, sorting through the dream’s images.

  For years after coming to faith, Falconer had awoken to dread images and drenching sweats. But this dream had been no nightmare. In fact, as he listened to his breathing steady, he felt something else entirely. Despite how the image linked Falconer to his own tragic past, he felt neither sorrow nor dismay. Instead, he felt exhilarated. What was more, he found himself wondering if perhaps the dream had carried some form of divine message.

  Falconer seated himself at the narrow table and read his Bible by candlelight. He had no idea of the hour, though he knew it was very late. The church towers stopped counting the hours at eleven. His eye caught sight of his reflection in the window opposite his little table. The window was filled with his bulk, like a dark-haired beast caught in a narrow cage door. The candlelight flickered, making the scar that ran up the left side of his face writhe like a serpent. He traced the scar with one finger and wished his outsize frame was merely due to the window’s uneven glass. In truth, he carried a fighter’s look about him. No wonder Alessandro and Bettina Gavi were so alarmed about his affection for their daughter, Serafina.

  Falconer folded his hands over the open Book and lowered his head. He presented his midnight prayer, faltering and terse. But Falconer had come to believe firmly in God’s ability to look beyond his awkward words and see the heart’s message. And his heart was sore indeed.

  His first few words were a request for clarity over the dream’s image. From there he wandered far. It was difficult for a strong man to face the helpless moment. And Falconer was trapped by his love for Serafina.

  When he lifted his head, the candle’s glow drew Serafina’s image in the window beside Falconer’s reflection. Hair the color of winter wheat framed a perfect face, palest lips, and eyes of captured sky. Her father was a Venetian merchant prince, her mother from the Italian Alps. She was rich, she was lovely, and she trusted him so fully he felt crippled by wants and needs he feared she would never share.

  He shut his eyes again and rested his forehead upon his hands. Hands made for sword and pike and pistol. Fists so powerful they could punch through a solid oak door, and had done so more than once. Folded now in prayer, turned from violence and wrath by the miracle of salvation. Father, I am the worst of sinners and the least of all. I have no right to ask you for anything more. Not after you have given me the greatest gift of eternity.
Yet ask I must. For I am as powerless as ever I have been. Is there any hope that my love for Serafina might be returned? Flawed and sinful as I am, might I ever know the gift of a wife and family? Give me a sign, Lord. For the days lay empty before me and the nights rest heavy on my heart. Give me a sign.

  Then the knock came upon his door.

  Falconer rose slowly. “Who goes there?”

  “It is I” came the urgent whisper.

  His heart surged. Was this his sign? “One moment.” Falconer lifted his eyes to the ceiling close overhead and let his exultation surge in one silent shout. Then he stepped into his boots and opened the door.

  Serafina stood before him. Beside her was Mary, the traveling companion from England who had remained as Serafina’s maid. Both were dressed in the hurried fashion of having reached for clothes in the dark. Mary appeared terrified, continually throwing glances back down the servants’ hallway.

  Serafina, however, showed Falconer only steadfast trust. “I saw men. Three of them. With guns.”

  Falconer moved to his desk and swiftly blew out the candle. He drew the door shut behind them. “Tell me everything,” he said, keeping his voice low.

  “Something woke me. A sound perhaps. I’m not sure,” Serafina began.

  “I heard it too,” Mary whispered.

  “You were fast asleep. I heard you breathing.”

  “I heard it clear as the nose on my face, miss. I tell you—”

  Falconer halted the disagreement with a touch to Mary’s arm. “You heard a sound. What then?”

  “I moved to the window and saw three men.”

  “Were you spotted?”

  “No. I had crawled across the floor and came up slowly by the glass.”

  He repressed his smile. “Good girl.”

  Nonetheless Mary caught his amusement. “How you can find anything humorous in this affair, good sir, is beyond my understanding.”

  “Tell me about the men.”

  “Three, as I said. One very tall. The other two thicker and shorter. I saw something in the moonlight. The tall man moved, and I saw he carried a musket. We came to you because they stood between our cottage and my parents’ apartment.”

  The previous summer, when Falconer had brought Serafina to Washington, they had found Alessandro and Bettina Gavi residing in an apartment at the rear of the Austrian legate’s manor. The building fronted Pennsylvania Avenue, with six large official chambers stretching along the street. But the apartment assigned to the Gavis contained only three rooms— kitchen, parlor, and cramped bedroom. Serafina and her maid had been assigned a chamber in the manor’s rear cottage. Falconer had been given a room in the servants’ wing, across the courtyard from the Gavis’ apartment. Which meant he was effectively isolated from both Serafina and her parents. This arrangement caused him no end of concern. Especially when the rumors began swirling.

  Falconer was treated as just another guest’s hired man, only larger and potentially more lethal. Few of the legate’s entourage even bothered to learn his name. He slipped about, he scouted, and he listened. That week, Falconer began hearing below-stairs rumors that Alessandro Gavi was marked for destruction.

  Falconer repeatedly warned Serafina’s father. But Alessandro Gavi was a diplomat by training and by nature, which meant he preferred to take a course of action only when everyone was in accord. Falconer wanted them moved to a private home, where they could be more protected. But when approached, the legate insisted that Alessandro and his family were his honored guests. Alessandro dithered, hoping to move only with his legate’s blessing.

  Falconer pushed open the servants’ exit, motioning for the women to remain well back. The door was at the base of the rear stairs, connected to Serafina’s cottage by a narrow brick path. The moon was hidden behind scuttling clouds. The March night was cold and very quiet.

  Falconer searched in every direction and saw nothing. But his well-honed senses felt danger lurking close by. He was at full alert as he drew Serafina forward. Quiet as a breeze he whispered, “Where did you spot them?”

  She pointed at the likeliest spot for an attack. “There.”

  Falconer’s eyes searched the dark reaches, trying to discern human legs. But it was futile. He backed away and silently shut the door. “We’ll go around the front.”

  Mary protested, “But, sir, I’m forbidden from entering the main rooms.”

  “As am I. Come along, swiftly now.” In fact, Falconer had never entered the formal chambers. They were said to be very grand, not that Falconer cared. He hurried the two ladies down the narrow servants’ corridor and through the swinging doors at the end. Down a connecting hall they sped, committed now. Past the kitchens and through another pair of swinging doors, which led into the dining salon. The doors swished softly over the polished marble floor, and one squeaked quietly as it closed. Falconer heard footsteps in the distance, undoubtedly a guard. He hissed softly, “Fly!”

  Serafina took the lead. She had been through these chambers often enough, drawn into public view at the legate’s insistence. Prince Fritz-Heinrich was a minor prince in the Hapsburg Empire and a tyrant within his own household. He had been known to fly into an uncontrollable rage over a singed roast. The front salons were treated as a distant reflection of the palace in Vienna, and guards were ordered to shoot intruders on sight.

  Had they not been in such a scramble, Falconer might have spared a second glance at what they passed. For here on Pennsylvania Avenue stood a sample of royal grandeur. The central hall was a full eighty feet long, the ceiling three stories high and domed. They raced beneath a forest of crystal chandeliers.

  “Who goes there!” came a shout behind them.

  “Faster,” Falconer said.

  “Halt!”

  Serafina pushed through the connecting doorway to the side passage. Mary’s face was stretched tight with terror. No doubt the servants who worked the front rooms regaled their fellows with tales of what awaited those who trespassed. Behind them they heard the clipped sound of leather-clad feet. Then came a sharper sound, one Falconer knew all too well—the metallic click of a percussion rifle being cocked.

  Falconer slipped through the hall door and halted just inside. He tensed as the footsteps raced toward them. When the door began to swing inward, Falconer applied all his strength in the opposite direction. The door hammered back, smashing hard against the oncoming guard. Falconer continued straight through, his fists at the ready. But the door had caught the guard square in the forehead and knocked him back a dozen paces. Falconer bent over the supine form, saw he was breathing but unconscious, and relieved the man of his weapon.

  He hurried down the side hall and outside to find the two women clutching each other outside the Gavis’ apartment door. “Why did you not enter?”

  “I left my key in the cottage,” Serafina whispered.

  Falconer did not want to knock and then bandy about with who goes there and why and all else that others might hear. Instead, he gripped the knob with one fist, readied himself, and heaved.

  There was a short sharp crack, and the lock wrenched free of the doorframe. “Inside.”

  He stepped into the small parlor and fitted the door back into place. Hopefully the damage would be missed in a hurried midnight inspection. “Go wake your parents, lass. Urge them to make haste.”

  Mary asked, “Shall I light a fire and make tea?”

  “There isn’t time.” Falconer moved to the window. The moon remained shrouded. He could see nothing save light from one window across the courtyard.

  Mary pulled the drapes shut and lit one candle. Falconer shifted one corner of the curtains and kept surveying the courtyard until Serafina returned with her parents.

  Alessandro Gavi hurried into the front parlor, wrapping a quilted robe about his frame, his face still rumpled with sleep. His wife followed close behind, looking both confused and frightened.

  Falconer silently watched the candlelight waver over the faces of the three Gavis as
Serafina continued her explanation of events. Gradually his exultation over Serafina’s appearance at his doorway evaporated. In its place was an ache so deep he could hardly breathe. He saw now that his prayerful request for a sign had been answered. Not by Serafina’s arrival, as he had first thought. Instead, by the very grave concern he saw in Alessandro and Bettina Gavi’s expressions.

  The months together with this family had shown him one thing above all else. Serafina would never defy her parents’ wishes again. All her early troubles had started through rebellion. She was determined now to honor her family. This she had said over and over.

  In this moment Falconer understood why she had repeated the words so often.

  As though to emphasize his bewilderment, Alessandro Gavi finally spoke in English. “I do not understand. You went first to this man and not to me?”

  This man. Falconer had saved his daughter’s honor. He had sheltered her in a transatlantic voyage. He had reunited her with her parents. Yet here in this moment of danger, he remained this man.

  Bettina Gavi must have seen Falconer’s distress, for she spoke quietly to her husband in Italian. Alessandro tried to recover by adding, “Not that we are ungrateful for your kind assistance, good sir. We remain in your debt. But you must see, after all, I am her father.”

  “I sought his protection,” Serafina replied, her forehead creased in confusion. “Was I wrong?”

  “No, daughter.” Bettina Gavi gripped her husband’s hand and squeezed. “Your father was merely concerned over, how do you say, decoro?”

  “Decorum,” her daughter supplied.

  “Exactly. After all, it is—what time is it, Alessandro?”

  “My pocket watch is back in the bedroom. But very late.” Alessandro Gavi might have been sleepy, but he had a diplomat’s smooth ways. “Sir, I of course meant no offense.”