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 said. '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 Roy all 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.
