Heirs of Acadia - 03 - The Noble Fugitive by T. Davis Bunn Page A

problems with our American enterprise. Not the emporium. My wife and I are pamphleteers, working mostly from Britain. But earlier we lived in Georgetown and started a press here in America. The man we had left in charge here passed on, and I needed to find a replacement. I thought I would bring my family, but there was a crisis in Britain.”
    “Your daughter mentioned as much. She said your wife was required to stay behind.” Falconer’s chair creaked as he leaned back, affecting a relaxed air that he did not feel. He watched Gareth pause to sip and examine the daylight spreading beyond the doorway. He knew the man was not merely relating his journey. There was a deeper message here. He found Hannah’s image there in his mind once more. He recalled the young girl’s smile. It was a remarkable sensation, to feel such trust for virtual strangers. Especially now, when his life was filled with the threat of mortal danger to life and mission.
    “We arrived in April and I went about my work,” Gareth Powers continued. “Then we both became ill. First my daughter, then me. Consumption, the doctor called it. Or the croup. Or any number of other names. As though identifying it might speed the healing process.”
    “Stronger men than I have been lost to that foul malady.”
    “I was desperately ill and made sicker still with worry over my beloved Hannah.” Gareth set down his mug so as not to slosh the liquid as he coughed. The act doubled him over. Hegradually straightened, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief drawn from the pocket of his robe. The words came hoarser now. “Three months and nineteen days we have been here now. Word has no doubt reached England of the storm that passed to the east of us. I am certain my wife believes we were lost at sea. I fear for her well-being, sir. I fear for my family.”
    “You want to return.”
    “I must return. There is my wife, and there is my work.” Gareth stopped then and sat with his face directed at the rising sun.
    Falconer rose from his seat, picked up Gareth’s mug from the table, and made them both another tea. When he was reseated, he said, “You need someone to be strong for you.”
    “And my daughter.”
    “And strong for Hannah. Of course.”
    Gareth lifted his mug, then looked straight at Falconer and said, “What I need to know, sir, is whether I can trust you to be our rock.”
    Falconer considered several replies. Finally he said, “May I ask you one thing, sir?”
    “Anything you like. Whether or not I can answer is another matter.”
    Falconer liked that response. There was a great sincerity to this man, a remarkable openness for one who clearly knew the importance of confidences. “Do you know a man by the name of William Wilberforce?”
    Gareth’s face creased, as though stricken by some deep internal sorrow. “Why do you ask?”
    “Your daughter mentioned him.” Falconer chose his words carefully. “It has to do with my mission, sir. Of this I am charged to maintain strictest secrecy. Not for myself. For the sake of others.”
    The pain in Gareth’s features only deepened. “Then I fear you must prepare yourself for a great shock.”
    The sense of defeat that had lingered on the horizonthroughout his futile voyage north intensified. Falconer nodded.
    “William is desperately ill. He has been ill so often, it is hard to discern whether this is not just one more bad spell. But before I left, he appeared to be going blind. One further reason I am so desperate to return. The longer we remain, the less likelihood I have of seeing my friend alive again.” Gareth reached over and gripped Falconer’s arm. “I repeat what I said before. What I must know, sir, is can I trust you?”
    Falconer studied the man’s intensity. Here, he realized, was someone he wished to know better. “Sir, I give you my word as the Lord’s servant. I shall serve you and your daughter to the utmost of my ability.”
    “I must warn you,” Gareth said. “There are