confined until a trial? It would be Lillehorne’s worst nightmare…if he could get over the bad dreams of shooting down a young man who in his soul had probably welcomed the release of death.
It was a strange place, this world that men had made. The new world perhaps even more strange than the old.
The sun of a summer afternoon shone down, the birds sang, the yellow butterflies flitted, and the green flies buzzed.
Matthew lay back in the shadowed grass, closed his eyes, and let himself rest for just a little while.
Forty-Nine
The doctors were waiting.
One stood composed and steady, the other nervously puffing his pipe. Who could tell what this would accomplish? Still, it had to be tried and both doctors were in accord.
The afternoon’s golden light spilled through the open window. In her high-backed purple chair, the Queen of Bedlam-a small woman, fragile in her pink homegown-sat as she always did, viewing the garden without comment or change of expression from moment to moment.
Matthew Corbett walked into the room.
He was dressed suitably for the long ride from New York. The tan-colored breeches, white shirt, and stockings were brand-new. So too were his dark brown riding boots, fashioned for him by the shoemaker Bulliver Martin. It helped to have a good-paying job in New York. Alas, he’d been unable to collect the ten shillings from Esther Deverick, for even though he’d put an end to the Masker’s career and the Clear Streets Decree, her condition of being the first informed had not been met. In this case, he would rather be alive than have ten shillings thrown on his grave.
’Twas a pity, then, that his discovery of the Masker’s identity and the subsequent story as it appeared in the Earwig meant that Deverick’s widow could not pack her belongings soon enough for the voyage back to England. The residents of Golden Hill of course appreciated money, but they did not appreciate a murder plot. At least, one that had been found out and so shamefully printed for all eyes both noble and common to read.
It was perhaps a bit harsh, and glided over the concept that Mrs. Deverick had been completely unaware of her husband’s dark adventure. Yet also Mrs. Deverick had been the most ferocious wind at work trying to blow Reverend Wade from Trinity Church, so without her Machiavellian turbulence that particular ship failed to sail.
Of the long-suffering Robert Deverick, however, there was a different story.
Matthew walked to Mrs. Swanscott’s side. He favored his left leg a bit, but the infection from the swordbite in his thigh had been caught and drained, the swelling subsided, and Dr. Vanderbrocken-who had decided a retirement of playing the violin and otherwise fiddling around did not suit his fiery nature-had declared him out of danger and whacked him on the back of his head for even causing him to consider the amputation saw. Of Matthew’s other wounds, there was not much to speak of if one did not mention the large medical plaster that covered the nasty gash just beside his left eye, the second and third smaller plasters on both cheeks, sundry scuffs, scrapes, and bruises and the strong odor of comfrey-and-garlic ointment that lubricated the healing gashes beneath the plaster on his forehead. Would he bear any further battle scars? The question asked of Vanderbrocken had caused the ill- tempered but highly efficient doctor to glare at Matthew over his spectacles and say, Do you wish to bear any further scars, young man? If you don’t shut up about scars, keep the wounds clean, and use that ointment as I tell you, I’ll give you the damnedest battle you ever fought.
The worst pain, if one wished to speak of pain, was not the sword cut on his right arm-for that was fortunately a shallow nick and not worth troubling-but underneath the comfrey-and-garlic damp bandage at his left shoulder where one of the hawks had torn through his coat cloth and shown in an instant how a cardinal could become nothing but a whirl of red feathers. It was also healing, but Vanderbrocken wanted to check that wound most often, as it was bone-deep and did cause Matthew to clench his teeth sometimes when it hurt like a screaming bastard usually in the middle of the night. The same arm, he knew so well, that Jack One Eye had thoroughly busted three years ago. He was going to be living on the starboard yet.
Otherwise, he was in tip-top health.
He had the fear, as he stood beside Mrs. Swanscott and she stared dreamily at the garden beyond, that this mass of plasters, scrapes, and bruises normally called “a face” would so frighten the woman that she might forever lose the power of speech. He glanced at the two doctors. Ramsendell nodded, while Hulzen looked anxiously on and pipesmoke billowed from his mouth.
Matthew said quietly, “Mrs. Swanscott?”
The Queen of Bedlam blinked, but she did not shift her gaze from the flowers and the butterflies. Matthew knew: it was all she had.
“Madam Emily Swanscott?” he repeated. “Can you hear me?”
She could. He knew it. Had her color changed, just slightly? Had her skin tone begun to turn more pink, starting with the ears?
“Emily?” Matthew asked, and gently put a hand on her shoulder.
Her head abruptly turned. Her eyes were wet, though still without true focus. Her mouth opened, but no words emerged. She closed her mouth, drew a long breath, and Matthew realized that somewhere inside her a voice of reason might be saying I will ask this question for the last time, the very last time, before I go away forever.
One tear rolled down her right cheek.
Her face was impassive. Regal. Her mouth opened, as if by superhuman effort of will.
“Young man,” she said, in a strained whisper, “has the King’s Reply yet arrived?”
Matthew answered. “Yes, madam. Yes, it has.”
