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At precisely two o'clock the following afternoon, Draegan arrived at Gilead Manor, the sprawling estate of Lucien Deane, Esq. At the front of the manse he was greeted by a young Negro servant. "Suh, Mistress Fallon's 'round the back. If you'll allow me, I'll take your mount and show you the way."
Draegan fell into step beside the servant, his glance lingering momentarily on the structure that was home to Lucien Deane and his niece.
The central portion of the house rose a full three stories above the spring-green lawn and was built of salmon-colored brick in time-honored Dutch fashion, spacious, square, and crowned with a gently sloping hip roof. To the original central portion, two identical wings had been added. These last were two stories high, with steep gabled roofs and dormer windows, decidedly English in influence and made of the gray sandstone so abundant in the Catskills.
The overall effect should have been jarring, Draegan thought, yet somehow it was not. Instead, the great house exuded a permanence and quiet grace from having weathered countless tumultuous years.
Age sat well upon its weathered walls, and the influence of two very different cultures, while each was clearly evident, failed to clash. In fact, they blended well.
At the far corner of the edifice, the servant paused. "The young mistress is in the garden yonder, suh," he said, indicating with a nod of his head a low stone enclosure joined to the rear of the house. "You just go on ovah, whilst I put up your mount."
Draegan gave the stallion's pale withers an affectionate pat before turning toward the garden where Mistress Deane waited. She must have heard his approach, for she rose from her seat and met him at the gate. "Good afternoon, Reverend Mattais. Won't you come in?"
"Mistress Deane," Draegan replied. "You're looking exceptionally well today. Have you done something different with your hair?"
She put a hand to her gleaming auburn tresses, somewhat self-consciously. "My hair is just as I always wear it."
"It must be your dress, then," Draegan said. "The color provides the perfect foil for those tigress eyes of yours. What shade is it?"
She pursed her lips, and her glance was filled with perplexity and annoyance. "It's green, sir. Now, if you've no other questions, I would like very much to get down to business." She swung the gate open and waited for Draegan to enter.
"My, what a charming place," Draegan said, ignoring her prickly replies. After Molly's tearful entreaties and not-so-subtle attempts at manipulation, he found her frank nature very unusual and oddly refreshing. "Has your family resided here long?"
"Oh, yes. For nearly half a century. The lands were originally part of a five-hundred-thousand-acre patroonship granted to Peter Van Ust. Van Ust's son Brom built the main section of the house in 1694, using ballast bricks brought from Holland in the bellies of Dutch East India Company ships. The patroonship failed in 1723. After emigrating from England my grandfather bought a portion of the original grant, some fifty thousand acres, improved upon the house, and founded the village. It has been home to the family ever since."
They came to two stone benches that sat facing each other, with a small, carved table between them. "I hope you don't mind if we conduct the interview here in the garden. The weather is exceptional, and I do so hate to be cooped up in the house on a day like today." She gathered her skirts and sank down on one bench, watching as Draegan took the other. "What of you, Reverend Mattais? Are you from the Hudson Valley?"
"Connecticut," Draegan said, amazed at how easily the half-truth slipped off his tongue. "But I've worked in New York for the past ten years."
"Oh? Doing what?" she asked without looking up.
He smiled tightly. "This and that. Nothing that merits a mention, I fear. You might call me a bit late to bloom."
She quirked a brow in disapproval and raised her gaze to his. "Of course, it merits a mention. It’s important that we are aware of your history so that we may assess whether or not you will benefit our community. Please continue."
"Very well, then, since you insist. My grandsire, like yours, was English. At the age of twenty, he settled in New York City, married Gertrude Van Ryker, a shopkeeper's widow. They prospered, and when he passed on a few years ago, he left the shop to me."
She glanced up sharply. "Trade makes for a lucrative living. If you don't mind my asking, why did you not pursue it?"
Because the columns of figures, the ledgers, the ink, and the endless inventory had bored him nearly to death, Draegan thought. After a few months, he'd turned the controlling interest over to his brother Christian, who was far more suited to the business than he, and had gone off in search of something more intriguing. Aloud, he said, "Suffice to say, it didn't suit. And so I tried my hand at surveying."
"But it did not suit either?"
He shrugged. "I confess, I'm somewhat hedonistic by nature, and that sort of existence is Spartan at best. Weeks in the wilderness, with no rooftree over my head. It was a harsh life. And the mosquitoes..." He shuddered. "It was nearly as intolerable as my brief stint aboard the Ida Lee."
She paused, her quill poised above the page, and stared at him. "You were a seaman, as well?"
Her tone was incredulous, but no longer clipped and cool. Draegan smiled. "An appallingly poor one, I'm afraid. I spent so much time at the rail that the captain threatened to cast me adrift in a dinghy."
He was rewarded with a soft dulcet laugh. "Really, sir! You are making that up!"
Draegan donned his most solemn face and raised his right hand. "It is the unvarnished truth, I swear." He had coaxed a bit of laughter from her. Surely that was good.
"Perhaps it would better serve to ask if there is anything you haven't done."
"Politics and the military," he readily replied. "The former is for godless individuals, the latter— well, you know what they say about men who make their living by the sword—and I myself hope to die in a great featherbed."
"I see," she murmured, but he knew that she hadn’t—seen through him, that is. She was still seated calmly across from him, and hadn’t shown him the door—or rather, the garden gate. She continued. "Why don't you tell me about your religious instruction."
"Ah, yes. The meat of our discussion. I studied theology at Harvard College some years ago, but it wasn't until recently that I felt the calling. I suppose I am rather remiss in choosing a profession."
“So, God has called you to do good works?”
“A higher power, yes.”
The worthy Mistress Deane feigned a cool detachment, though Draegan thought he detected a glimmer of interest in those remarkable tawny eyes of hers. "Well, I supposed once taught, one knows one’s theological stance. It isn’t very likely something you’d forget. Do you have references?" she asked. "I am certain my uncle will wish to review them."
"Yes. Yes, of course." Draegan produced the requested papers. "They are from Pastor Akers in Albany. Are you familiar with him?"
"I do believe I have heard the name, yes." She studied the pages carefully, while Draegan studied her. "I see from this letter that you have been associated with Pastor Akers and with his parish for a number of years."
"Indeed, we are very close," Draegan said evasively. "By the by, will Master Deane be joining us soon?"
Scratch, scratch, scratch—her pen never faltered as she replied, and she didn't look up from her work. "I'm afraid that won't be possible."
"Not possible?" Draegan repeated. "I'm afraid I don't understand."
Fallon took a deep breath and met the enigmatic young minister's questioning gaze, wishing he did not possess the power to unsettle her. Since meeting her at the garden gate, he'd barely taken his eyes off her, and she found it difficult to maintain her calm, with him watching her so intently. His eyes were so startlingly clear, so bright in his tanned face, so penetrating, that she felt as if his slightest glance bared her secrets, plumbed the depths of her very soul.
It was a ridiculous notion, of course, yet no matter how Fallon tried, she could not seem to dismiss it. Nervously, she wet her lips, annoyed that her highly prized level-headedness had chosen this inopportune time to desert her—annoyed at him for making her feel this way. Men never rattled her composure. In fact, she’d always rather enjoyed that her uncle treated her as an equal, asking her opinion, sharing his discoveries. She wasn’t sure why she did not feel at ease with the reverend, why she didn’t feel his equal. But he was quite unlike the men of her acquaintance. Perhaps that was it.
"A few years ago, Uncle Lucien suffered a terrible accident, and for a time lost the use of his legs. His convalescence was slow, and he never completely regained his mobility. Since his recovery, he has become something of a recluse."
"Perhaps he will make an exception just this once," Draegan said. "A bit of Christian fellowship might do him a world of good, and I would be happy to pray for his complete recovery."
"That’s very kind of you," Fallon replied. But Uncle is scientific-minded, and irreligious at best. He’s involved in a very important project at this time, and has become quite self-absorbed. Therefore, he is unable to help you during your period of adjustment."
"Really? Well, isn’t that intriguing? What is this project of your uncle's?"
"My uncle is a student of natural philosophy," she told him matter-of-factly, "and, to quote Dr. Franklin, 'one of the most brilliant minds of our enlightened modern age'." She stopped, deciding she'd told him enough.
"I see." His dark brows came together above his patrician nose, and he pinned Fallon with his unwavering stare. "But the position is still available?"
"Nothing has changed in that respect," Fallon hastened to reassure him. "The village is in desperate need of a minister. We have been without spiritual guidance since the latter months of 1776. Most of the families in Abundance have sons, husbands, or brothers who have gone off to war, some of whom will never come home. Having the solace of the church to turn to in time of need would greatly comfort them."
At that moment, a stout woman of middle years appeared, bearing a silver tea tray. "I brought you both some tea, if you wish to call it that," the servant said, pulling a face. "Raspberry leaves and peppermint. Herbal brews are all we have in these parts since the war has cut off supplies."
Fallon smiled at the older woman. "Zepporah, this is Reverend Draegan Mattais. Reverend Mattais, Zepporah Rhys."
"Madam Rhys," Draegan said. "It's a pleasure. Shall I see you Sunday morning at the worship service?"
"Indeed, sir. So long as the Lord is willing." She bobbed a curtsy and returned to the house.
"Zepporah is Willie's mother, and has been our housekeeper for a number of years. I daresay she doesn't approve of the blockade—or the war, for that matter."
"But you do?"
"Oh, yes!” she said, showing more enthusiasm than she had intended. She found herself blushing at her sudden departure from her deliberate all-business persona. “Your pardon, Reverend. It’s just that I would take up the sword myself if they would let me."
He was conspicuously silent. Fallon felt his censure, yet she would not apologize for her patriotism “You disapprove of my fervency, I gather?" she said.
He spread his hands. They were elegant hands, broad at the base, with long, tapering fingers. "Disapprove may be too strong a term, mistress. I will admit that as a servant of the Lord, I would far prefer a peaceful resolution to our differences with the Mother Country. Yet, I know in my heart that it has gone too far for that. A great deal of blood has been shed, and there is seemingly no end to the killing. I do fear, however, that if certain forces have their way, the earth shall run red with blood before it is ended."
"Doubtless you are right," Fallon admitted. "Once set in motion, the rebellion cannot be stopped. And I can only pray that the lives being sacrificed will not be lost in vain."
He was silent for a long moment, broodingly so. In the interim, Fallon poured the herbal brew that served as tea. There was honey for sweetening, but Draegan declined. He continued to watch her as he sipped his tea, and when he spoke again, he did so over the rim of his cup. "What of your uncle? Does he share your passion for liberty?"
Fallon smiled slightly. "My uncle, like you, is a pacifist, and has chosen a neutral stance. The search for knowledge and enlightenment is his passion."
"But he is aware of your differing views?"
"Oh, yes. Very well aware. We have no secrets here at Gilead Manor, and uncle is very progressive. He doesn’t discourage me from voicing my opinion, just because I happen to be female."
Draegan's pale eyes glittered beneath the sooty fringe of his lashes. He smiled at the latter comment, but clung to the first. "Everyone has secrets, Mistress Deane."
There was that touch of wry humor again in his voice, a subtle twist of his firm mouth—that certain indefinable something that told her there was more to the Reverend Draegan Mattais than met the casual eye.
Fallon was intrigued. She tilted her head and considered him, her cup poised halfway to her lips. "If that is so, then one is given to wonder what manner of secrets you yourself are keeping."
He laughed low. "I’m sure that I do. After all, I am only human. Yet, if I told you, they wouldn't be secrets, now, would they?"
Fallon finished her tea and placed the cup in its saucer. Among other things the man was a terrible tease. "Are you always so flirtatious, Reverend Mattais?”
“Not always,” he said. “It must be something about present company that brings out the rogue in me.”
Fallon glanced at him and then away, unable to frankly meet that penetrating stare for very long. “Honestly, sir, if I didn't know better, I would think you were trying to charm your way into this position."
"If I thought it would work, I would make a valiant effort," he said jokingly. In the next instant he was serious, all traces of humor having fled his handsome visage. "I need this position, Mistress Deane. Perhaps as much as you need to find a reliable clergyman to serve your village."
"I do not doubt your sincerity," Fallon replied. "And I expect you shall have my uncle's final decision very soon." She gathered her papers together and put them back in the portable desk, along with the quill. "I believe I can finish my notations from memory, so unless you have something to add, the interview is concluded."
Draegan rose from the bench and took her hand, bringing her knuckles briefly to his smiling lips. "I shall be waiting to hear from you," he said. "Good day to you, Mistress Deane."
Fallon watched as he made his way through the garden gate to where his mount was waiting. But it was not until she'd gathered her things and gone into the house to finish her notations that she realized she'd completely forgotten to question him about his activities at the rectory the previous day... or to ask precisely what it was he'd been searching for.
With a shake of her head, she entered the library and settled down to her work. If Lucien confirmed the man's appointment, as Fallon suspected he would, there would be ample time to satisfy her curiosity. In the meantime, Draegan Mattais had certainly given her a great deal to think about.
Later that evening, Fallon tapped on the door of her uncle's study. At his soft, distracted murmur, she entered the room. Stacks of books and untidy mounds of paper littered every available surface in the spacious room—the only room in the house the housekeeper was forbidden to set foot in.
In the midst of the clutter, Lucien Deane sat hunched over a sheaf of papers spread across his massive walnut desk. Beside the desk was a tall standing candelabrum with seven branched holders, yet only one taper had been lit. Its feeble wavering light did little to dispel the encroaching darkness.
Fallon crossed the room and carefully lifted the candle from its holder, using it to light the other six. As light blossomed in the room, Lucien Deane looked up from his work. "You really should take better care with your eyes, Uncle. It isn't healthy to read in the dark."
"Fallon, dear, you are far too young and pretty to fuss about my eyesight. You ought to worry more about finding a suitable husband. Besides, I was going to light the candles in a moment or two. I wanted to finish reading Trumbolt's treatise on toxins first. Fascinating stuff! Trumbolt claims that belladonna poisoning can be detected by the infusion of a single drop of the victim's urine in a cat's eye. If within an hour the pupil fully dilates, atropa belladonna is clearly indicated. If not, then one must look to other toxins for the cause of the complaint."
"I should think the cat would have the greatest cause to complain," Fallon replied.
Lucien laughed. “You are a joy to me, girl.”
“And you to me,” Fallon said with genuine affection. Then, "The Reverend Mattais was here today."
Lucien propped his elbows on his desk. "Oh? And how did you find him? Is he worthy as a candidate, or should we throw him back, and hope to land something better?"
He was intriguing, Fallon thought, mysterious, disturbingly sensual... possessed of a dry wit... not at all what she had imagined him to be. Aloud, she said, "I think he is competent, intelligent, personable ... and he indicated that he needs the position."
"Ah," Lucien said with a crooked smile, "he is impoverished. That's in our favor, then. He’ll be glad for whatever salary we offer.”
“Uncle!” Fallon chided.
“A bit of deprivation is good for the soul, Fallon, or, so they say. And if the man is dependent upon his parishioners for his bread, he's less likely to become a religious tyrant.”
“Uncle Lucien! You should not joke about such things!”
“Yes, I know. I shouldn't say such things." Lucien rose and slowly moved around the desk, pausing before Fallon. "It's just that you so resemble your mother when you admonish me that I cannot seem to help myself. 'Tis a pity that she and your father cannot see the woman you've become. They'd be quite proud of you, you know."
"I thank you for the compliment," Fallon said, answering his smile with one of her own. She didn't remember her mother. Sabina Woods Deane had died of diphtheria when Fallon was very young, yet Lucien, out of sheer kindness, had striven to keep some small part of her alive for Fallon—as he had with her father, Osgood, his younger brother. For that, Fallon was grateful.
"Zepporah has the stew warming on the hearth," she went on. "If you like, we can go over the notations I took this afternoon while you sup."
"I shall of course review your notes," Lucien said. "But a little later. Just now I want to get back to Trumbolt's treatise. I really must send him a note complimenting him on his ingenuity. The eye of a cat—” He chuckled rustily. “Now, who would have thought?"
Fallon sighed. Lucien Deane's mind was given to wandering at will, and unless he was gently re¬minded, the problem of installing the new minister could have gone unresolved for weeks. "About the Reverend Mr. Mattais, Uncle. I promised him that he could expect a decision soon on whether he will be awarded the position."
"Oh, of course, yes. And so he shall." He considered her a moment, thoughtfully stroking his chin. "You said that you deem him competent."
Fallon nodded. "I believe so. He is Harvard-educated."
"Well spoken?"
"Exceedingly so."
"Do you think him as qualified for the position as his predecessors?"
"He did not seem to be under the influence of spirits, and given his neutrality, he isn't very likely to go off to war—"
"Then we shall consider the matter settled," Lucien said emphatically. "Hire the man."
"Simply on my word? Are you certain you would not like to meet with him first, to gauge his attributes for yourself?"
"There will be time for that later. Indeed, we can have him to the manor for dinner very soon. In the meantime I shall trust to your wisdom. You've always been a good judge of character. You have your mother's spirit and your father's shrewdness, and I like to think that I have taught you to look beyond the exterior to that which lies within. So, unless there is something that concerns you about Reverend Mattais that you aren't telling me, I shall consider the thing done."
Fallon had no objections to Lucien's hiring Draegan Mattais, besides the fact that he unsettled her. And that she could not admit without sounding silly and childish, so she held her tongue. "Are you certain you won't come down to dinner?"
"Not just yet," Lucien said. "There's Trumbolt to see to, and in any case, I don't have much of an appetite this evening." He linked his arm with Fallon's and walked her to the door. "You will keep me informed as to how the good reverend is faring in his new environs, won't you, my dear?"
"Yes, of course." Fallon leaned down to kiss Lucien's cheek. "Good night, Uncle."
"Good night, my dear." Fallon stepped into the hallway but paused as Lucien called her back. "Oh, and Fallon?"
"Yes, Uncle?"
"Be certain to convey a hearty welcome to our Reverend Mattais on my behalf."
After a brief nod of acknowledgment to Lucien's wishes, Fallon left him, making her way down the stairs to sup alone.