“You may put faith in it,” she answered, and then she pressed her ear to the wall again.
“Let me show you what I’ve brought.” He approached her and offered the box. “Take it and look inside.” Rachel laid down the rolling pin, accepted the box, and lifted its lid.
Matthew saw no reaction on her face, as she viewed the coins and the other items. “The little bag. Open that too.” She shook the gems out into the box. Again, there was no reaction.
“Those were found in Johnstone’s house.” He had already decided to tell her the truth. “Mr. Bidwell asked me to give them to you.”
“Mr. Bidwell,” Rachel repeated, without emotion. She closed the lid and held the box out. “You take them. I have already received from Mr. Bidwell all the gifts that I can stand.”
“Listen to me. Please. I know how you must feel, but—”
“No. You do not, nor can you ever.”
“Of course you’re right.” He nodded. “But surely you must realize you’re holding a true fortune. I daresay with the kind of money you could get in Charles Town from the sale of those jewels, you might live in Mr. Bidwell’s style in some larger, more populous city.”
“I see what his style is,” she countered, “and I detest it. Take the box.”
“Rachel, let me point out something to you. Bidwell did not murder your husband. Nor did he create this scheme. I don’t particularly care for his…um…motivations, either, but he was reacting to a crisis that he thought would destroy Fount Royal. In that regard,” Matthew said, “he acted properly. You know, he might have hanged you without waiting for the magistrate. I’m sure he could have somehow justified it.”
“So you’re justifying him, is that right?”
“Since he now faces a guilty verdict from you in a tragedy for which he was not wholly responsible,” Matthew said, “I am simply pleading his case.”
Rachel stared at him in silence, still holding out the box to him. He made no move to accept it.
“Daniel is gone,” Matthew told het. “You know that. Gone, too, are the men who murdered him. But Fount Royal—such as it may be—is still here, and so is Bidwell. It appears he intends to do his best to rebuild the town. That is his main concern. It seems to be yours as well. Don’t you think this common ground is larger than hatred?”
“I shall take this box,” Rachel said calmly, “and dump it into the spring if you refuse it.”
“Then go ahead,” he answered, “because I do refuse it. Oh: except for one gold piece. The one that Johnstone stole from my room. Before you throw your fortune and future away to prove your devotion to Daniel in continued poverty and suffering, I will take the one gold piece.” There was no response from her, though perhaps she did flinch just a little.
“I understand Bidwell’s position,” Matthew said. “The evidence against you was overwhelming. I too might have pressed for your execution, if I believed firmly enough in witchcraft. And…if I hadn’t fallen in love with you.”
Now she did blink; her eyes, so powerful a second before, had become dazed.
“Of course you recognized it. You didn’t want me to. In fact, you asked me to—as you put it—go on about my life. You said—there in the gaol, after I’d read the magistrate’s decree—that the time had come to embrace reality.” He disguised his melancholy with a faint smile. “That time has now come for both of us.”
Rachel looked down at the floor. She had taken hold of the box with both hands, and Matthew saw an ocean’s worth of conflicting tides move across her face.
He said, “I’m leaving in the morning. I will be in Charles Town for a few weeks. Then most likely I will be travelling to New York. At that time I can be reached through Magistrate Nathaniel Powers, if you ever have need of me.”
She lifted her gaze to his, her eyes wet and glistening. “I can never repay you for my life, Matthew. How can I even begin?”
“Oh…one gold coin will do, I think.”
She opened the box, and he took the coin. “Take another,” she offered. “Take as many as you like. And some of the jewels, too.”
“One gold coin,” he said. “That’s my due.” He put the coin into his pocket, never to be spent. He looked around the house and sighed. He had the feeling that once the rats were run out and her home was truly hers again, she might embrace the reality of moving to a better abode—further away from that wretched gaol.
Rachel took a step toward him. “Do you believe me…when I say I’ll remember you when I’m an old, old woman?”
“I do. And please remember me, if at that point you’re seeking the excitement of a younger man.”
She smiled, in spite of her sadness. Then she grasped his chin, leaned forward—and kissed him very softly on the forehead, below the bandage that covered what would be his grandchildren’s favorite story.
Now was the moment, he realized. It was now or never.
To ask her. Had she actually entered that smoke-palled medicine lodge? Or had it been only his feverish—and wishful—fantasy?
Was he still a virgin, or not?
He made his decision, and he thought it was the right one.
“Why are you smiling that way?” Rachel asked.
“Oh…I am remembering a dream I think I had. One more thing: you said to me once that your heart was used up.” Matthew looked into her dirt-streaked, determined face, forever-more locking her remarkable beauty of form and spirit in his memory vault. “I believe…it is a cupboard that only need be restocked.” He leaned forward and kissed her cheek, and then he had to go.
Had to.
As Matthew left the house, Rachel followed him to the door. She stood there, on the threshold of her home and her own new beginning. “Goodbye!” she called, and perhaps her voice was tremulous. “Goodbye!”
He glanced back. His eyes were stinging, and she was blurred to his sight. “Farewell!” he answered. And then he went on, as Rachel’s sentinel sniffed his shoes and then returned to its rat-catching duties.
MATTHEW SLEPT THAT NIGHT like a man who had rediscovered the meaning of peace.
At five-thirty, Mrs. Nettles came to awaken him as he’d asked, though the town’s remaining roosters had already performed that function. Matthew shaved, washed his face, and dressed in a pair of cinnamon-colored breeches and a fresh white shirt with the left sleeve cut away. He pulled up his white stockings and slid his feet into the square-toed shoes. If Bidwell wanted back the clothes he had loaned, the man would have to rip them off himself.
Before he descended the stairs for the last time, Matthew went into the magistrate’s room. No, that was wrong. The room was Bidwell’s again, now. He stood there for a while, staring at the perfectly made bed. He looked at the candle stubs and the lantern. He looked at the clothes Woodward had worn, now draped over the back of a chair. All save the gold-striped waistcoat, which had gone with the magistrate to worlds unknown.
Yesterday, when he’d gone to the graveside, he’d had a difficult time until he’d realized the magistrate no longer suffered, either in body or mind. Perhaps, in some more perfect place, the just were richly rewarded for their tribulations. Perhaps, in that place, a father might find a lost son, both of them gone home to a garden.
Matthew lowered his head and wiped his eyes.
Then he let his sadness go, like a nightbird.
Downstairs, Mrs. Nettles had prepared him a breakfast that might have crippled the horse he was to ride. Bidwell was absent, obviously preferring to sleep late rather than share the clerk’s meal. But with the final cup of tea, Mrs. Nettles brought Matthew an envelope, upon which was written Concerning the Character and Abilities of Master Matthew Corbett, Esq. Matthew turned it over and saw it was sealed with a red blob of wax in which was impressed an imperial B.
“He asked I give it to ye,” Mrs. Nettles explained. “For your future references, he said. I’d be might pleased, for compliments from Mr. Bidwell are as rare as snowballs in Hell.”
“I am pleased,” Matthew s
aid. “Tell him I thank him very much for his kindness.”
The breakfast done, Mrs. Nettles walked outside with Matthew. The sun was well up, the sky blue, and a few lacy clouds drifting like the sailing ships Bidwell hoped to launch from this future port. John Goode had brought an excellent-looking roan horse with a saddle that might not raise too many sores between here and Charles Town. Mrs. Nettles opened the saddlebags to show him the food she’d packed for him, as well as a leather waterflask. It occurred to Matthew that, now that his usefulness was done to the master of Fount Royal, it was up to the servants to send him off.
Matthew shook Goode’s hand, and Goode thanked him for coming to take that “bumb” out of his house. Matthew returned the thanks, for giving him the opportunity to taste some absolutely wonderful turtle soup.
Mrs. Nettles only had to help him a little to climb up on the horse. Then Matthew situated himself and grasped the reins. He was ready.
“Young sir?” Mrs. Nettles said. “May I give ye a word of advice?”
“Of course.”
“Find y’self a good, strong Scottish lass.”
He smiled. “I shall certainly take it under consideration.”
“Good luck to ye,” she said. “And a good life.”
Matthew guided his horse toward the gate and began his journey. He passed the spring, where a woman in a green bonnet was already drawing water for the day. He saw in a field a farmer, breaking earth with a wooden hoe. Another farmer was walking amid fresh furrows, tossing seeds from one side to the other.
Good luck, Fount Royal! Matthew thought. And good life to all those who lived here, both on this day and on the day tomorrow.
At the gate, Mr. Green was waiting to lift the locking timber. “Goodbye, sir!” he called, and displayed a gap-toothed grin.
Matthew rode through. He was not very far along the sunlit road when he reined the horse in and paused to look back. The gate was closing. Slowly, slowly…then shut. Over the singing of birds in the forest, Matthew heard the sound of the locking timber slide back into place.
He had a sure destination.
New York. But not just because Magistrate Nathaniel Powers was there. It was also because the almshouse was there, and Headmaster Eben Ausley. Matthew recalled what that insidious, child-brutalizing villain had said to him, five years ago: Consider that your education concerning the real world has been furthered. Be of excellent service to the magistrate, be of good cheer and good will, and live a long and happy life. And never—never—plot a war you have no hope of winning.
Well, Matthew mused, perhaps the boy of five years ago could neither plot a war nor win it. But the man of today might find a method to end Ausley’s reign of terror.
It was worth putting one’s thoughts to, wasn’t it?
Matthew stared for a moment at the closed gate, beyond which lay both an ending and a beginning. Then he turned his mount, his face, and his mind toward the century of wonders.
Robert R. McCammon, Speaks the Nightbird
(Series: # )
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