Part 54 (2/2)
”And neither would I. My curiosity again, sir... and pardon me for not knowing these things an experienced hunter as yourself knows... but I would think you might lose your way on such a long journey as from here to the Florida country. How far exactly is it?”
”I judge it to be a hundred and forty-seven miles, by the most direct route.”
”The most direct route?” Matthew asked. He took another drink. ”I am still amazed, though, sir. You must have an uncanny sense of direction.”
”I pride myself on my woods craft.” Stiles pulled from the pipe, leaned his head slightly back, and blew smoke toward the ceiling. ”But I must admit I did have the benefit of a map.”
”Oh, ” Matthew said. ”Your map.”
”Not my map. Bidwell's. He bought it from a dealer in Charles Town. It's marked in French by the original explorer-that's how old it is-but I've found it to be accurate.”
”It so happens I read and speak French. If you have need of a translation, I'd be glad to be of service.”
”You might ask Bidwell. He has the map.”
”Ah, ” Matthew said.
”Van Gundy, you old goat!” Stiles shouted toward the tavern-keeper, not without affection. ”Let's have some more rum over here! A cup for the young man, too!”
”Oh, not for me, thank you. I think I've had my fill.” Matthew stood up. ”I must be on my way.”
”Nonsense! Stay and enjoy the evening. Van Gundy's going to be playing his gittern again shortly.”
”I hate to miss such an experience, but I have some reading to be done.”
”That's what's wrong with you legalists!” Stiles said, but he was smiling. ”You think too much!”
Matthew returned the smile. ”Thank you for the company. I hope to see you again.”
”My pleasure, sir. Oh... and thank you for the information. You can be sure I'll keep it to myself.”
”I have no doubt, ” Matthew said, and he made his way out of the smoke-filled place before that deadly gittern could be again unsheathed.
On his walk back to the mansion, Matthew sifted what he'd learned like a handful of rough diamonds. Indeed, with luck and fort.i.tude, it was possible to reach the Florida country. Planning the trip-taking along enough food, matches, and the like- would be essential, and so too would be finding and studying that map. He doubted it would be in the library. Most likely Bidwell kept the map somewhere in his upstairs study.
But what was he considering considering? Giving up his rights as an Englishman? Venturing off to live in a foreign land? He might know French and Latin, but Spanish was not a point of strength. Even if he got Rachel out of the gaol-the first problem-and out of the town-the second problem-and down to the Florida country- the third and most mind-boggling problem-then was he truly prepared never to set foot again on English earth?
Or never to see the magistrate again?
Now here was another obstacle. If indeed he surmounted the first two problems and set off with Rachel, then the realization of what Matthew had done could well lay the magistrate in his grave. He might be setting his nightbird free at the cost of killing the man who had opened his own cage from a life of grim despair.
That's what's wrong with you legalists. You think too much.
Candles and lamps were ablaze at the mansion. Obviously the festivity was still under way. Matthew entered the house and heard voices from the parlor. He was intent on un.o.btrusively walking past the room on his way to the stairs when someone said, ”Mr. Corbett! Please join us!”
Alan Johnstone had just emerged on his cane from the dining room, along with the gray-bearded man that Matthew had a.s.sumed was the acting troupe's leader. Both men were well dressed-Johnstone certainly more so than the masker-and held goblets of wine. The schoolmaster had adorned his face with a dusting of white powder, just as he'd done the night of Matthew's and the magistrate's arrival. The men appeared fed and satisfied, indicating that dinner had just recently adjourned.
”This young man is Matthew Corbett, the magistrate's clerk, ” Johnstone explained to his companion. ”Mr. Corbett, this is Mr. Phillip Brightman, the founder and princ.i.p.al actor of the Red Bull Players.”
”A pleasure!” Brightman boomed, displaying a ba.s.so voice powerful enough to wake cemetery sleepers. He shook Matthew's hand with a grip that might have tested the blacksmith's strength, but he was in fact a slim and rather una.s.suming-looking fellow though he did have that commanding, theatrical air about him.
”Very good to meet you.” Matthew withdrew his hand, thinking that Brightman's power had been seasoned by a life of turning a grueling wheel between the poles of the maskers' art and the necessity of food on the table. ”I understand your troupe has arrived somewhat early.”
”Early, yes. Our standing engagements in two other communities were... urn... unfortunately cancelled. But now we're glad to be here among such treasured friends!”
”Mr. Corbett!” Winston strolled out of the parlor, winegla.s.s in hand. He was clean, close-shaven, relaxed and smiling, and dressed in a spotless dark blue suit. ”Do join us and meet Mr. Smythe!”
Bidwell suddenly appeared behind Winston to toss in his two pence. ”I'm sure Mr. Corbett has matters to attend to upstairs. We shouldn't keep him. Isn't that right, Mr. Corbett?”
”Oh, I believe he should at least step in and say h.e.l.lo, ” Winston insisted. ”Perhaps have a gla.s.s of wine.”
Bidwell glowered at Matthew, but he said with no trace of rancor, ”As you please, Edward, ” and returned to the parlor.
”Come along, ” Johnstone urged, as he limped on his cane past Matthew. ”A gla.s.s of wine for your digestion.”
”I'm full up with apple beer. But may I ask who Mr. Smythe is?”
”The Red Bull's new stage manager, ” Brightman supplied. ”Newly arrived from England, where he performed excellent service to the Saturn Cross Company and before that to James Prue's Players. I wish to hear firsthand about the witch, too. Come, come!” Before Matthew could make an excuse to leave- since he did have a matter to attend to upstairs concerning a certain French-drawn map-Brightman grasped him by the upper arm and guided him into the parlor.
”Mr. David Smythe, Mr. Matthew Corbett, ” Winston said, with a gesture toward each individual in turn. ”The magistrate's clerk, Mr. Smythe. He delivered the guilty decree to the witch.”
”Really? Fascinating. And rather fearful too, was it not?” Smythe was the young blond-haired man Matthew had seen sitting beside Brightman on the driver's plank of the lead wagon. He had an open, friendly face, his smile revealing that he'd been blessed with a mouthful of st.u.r.dy white teeth. Matthew judged him to be around twenty-five.
”Not so fearful, ” Matthew replied. ”I did have the benefit of iron bars between us. And Mr. Bidwell was at my side.”
”Fat lot of good I might have done!” Bidwell said mirthfully, also in an effort to take control of this conversation. ”One snap from that d.a.m.ned woman and I would've left my boots standing empty!”
Brightman boomed a laugh. Smythe laughed also, and so did Bidwell at his own wit, but Winston and the schoolmaster merely offered polite smiles.
Matthew was stone-faced. ”Gentlemen, I remain unconvinced that-” He felt a tension suddenly rise in the room, and Bidwell's laugh abruptly ended. ”-that Mr. Bidwell would have been anything less than courageous, ” Matthew finished, and the sigh of relief from the master of Fount Royal was almost audible.
”I neither recall meeting the woman nor her husband last year, ” Brightman said. ”Did they not attend our play, I wonder?”
”Likely not.” Bidwell crossed the parlor to a decanter of wine and filled his own gla.s.s. ”He was a rather quiet... one might say reclusive... sort, and she was surely busy fas.h.i.+oning her own acting skills. Uh... not to infer that your craft has anything whatsoever to do with the infernal realm.”
Brightman laughed again, though not nearly so heartily. ”Some would disagree with you, Mr. Bidwell! Particularly a reverend hereabouts. You know we had occasion to oust a certain Bible-thumper from our camp this afternoon.”
”Yes, I heard. Reverend Jerusalem possesses a fire that unfortunately sears the righteous as well as the wicked. Not to fear, though: as soon as he applies the rite of sanctimonity to the witch's ashes, he'll be booted out of our Garden of Eden.”
Oh, the wit overflowed tonight! Matthew thought. ”The rite of sanctimonity?” He recalled hearing Jerusalem use that phrase when the preacher had first come to the gaol to confront his ”enemy mine.”
”What kind of nonsense is that?”
”Nothing you would understand, ” Bidwell said, with a warning glance.
”I'm sure he would, ” Johnstone countered. ”The preacher plans to administer some kind of ridiculous rite over Madam Howarth's ashes to keep her spirit, phantasm, or whatever from returning to haunt Fount Royal. If you ask me, I think Jerusalem has studied Marlowe and Shakespeare at least as much as he's studied Adam and Moses!”
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