“Is he a God-fearing man?”
“No, but he should be. However, it is too late for that now. He lives within a world of his own making. There are days he does not recognize even me. So it’s best he not know certain things. He would not mean to do it, but I cannot be sure he wouldn’t reveal something to the authorities.”
“I’m sorry,” Malcolm offered, “for your difficulties.”
She fidgeted with her dress in silence.
“You do realize that you are extraordinary. You wield great power, lass, and there are people who will recognize this power and seek you out.”
“As you are doing,” she told him, lifting her chin to stare directly at him. “I will give them the same answer I give you.”
“Some may not accept it. The risk that you will serve their rivals would be too dangerous for them to bear.” Malcolm could see he was getting his point across.
She was trembling, but then she surprised him again. “If I am that powerful, why should I fear them? Perhaps they should fear me.”
He grinned at her spirit. “You could use your special abilities to help people.”
Jane pursed her lips and shook her head with uncertainty. “I don’t know if it’s wise to use something so dark, even in a good cause.”
“A wise man shouldn’t refuse to help others in any way he can.” Malcolm sat quietly as his own point struck home.
“I thank you for your concern, Mr. MacFarlane. I shall think on what you’ve said.”
There was a sound behind him and Malcolm turned to see an elderly gentleman enter the room. He wore a suit of clothes, but his feet were shod in slippers and an ancient nightcap rested on his head. His eyes held confusion, knowing something was out of place in the house but unable to recognize it.
The old man asked Malcolm, “Are you a lamplighter or a bill collector? Who else would be about so early?”
“Good morning, sir.” Malcolm bowed. “I’m neither.”
Jane approached her father’s side. “May I present Mr. MacFarlane. He is a gentleman and a servant of the needy.”
Mr. Somerset relaxed and shook hands with Malcolm. “Then you are most welcome in this house.”
“Thank you, sir,” Malcolm replied. “Join us. We were just discussing”—Jane’s eyes flashed fearfully— “the state of London’s poetry scene.”
She exhaled a sigh of relief and guided her father as he stepped toward a comfortable chair set between them.
The old man announced, “There was a poem about willow trees in last week’s paper. I found it quite nice. I think a poem should be about something like a tree or a dog or a battle. Seems like so many new poems are just words laid across a page.”
Jane sat down demurely and smiled at Malcolm, grateful for his tact.
Mr. Somerset’s eyes clouded once more, uncertain of the memory, but then just nodded. “Ah, yes. Are you an author, sir?”
“I can’t make that claim,” answered Malcolm.
“I detect a burr. I’d say Glasgow, but there’s some Edinburgh too.”
“Raised not far from Glasgow. And I attended university in Edinburgh. Your ear is good.”
“Scotsman.” Mr. Somerset laced his fingers over his misbuttoned vest. “I don’t hold that against you, son.”
Malcolm found the comment amusing coming from the old man. “Thank you, sir.”
“Are you gainfully employed?”
“I am my own man.”
“Splendid. I think all enterprising young men should make their mark in the world.” He patted Jane’s hand, and told her, “John here is a wonderful choice for a husband.”
“This isn’t John, father,” Jane said with gentle patience. “John died at sea last year. Remember? This gentleman is named Malcolm. Malcolm MacFarlane.”
“MacFarlane?” Mr. Somerset stared in confusion at Jane. “Surely Captain Perry should be home by now.”
Malcolm glanced at Jane with admiration for her calm demeanor and kind disposition. Her worried expression regarded him, but then she nodded slowly turning back to her father.
Her slim hand gestured to their guest. “But this is Mr. Malcolm MacFarlane. He walked me home from the kitchen and was visiting to discuss matters of faith and charity.”
“Ahh, a pleasure to meet you, Mr. MacFarlane.” Mr. Somerset rose unsteadily and shook hands with Malcolm again.
Malcolm nodded at the old man, not disrupted by the man’s confusion. “Thank you for your kindness. Your daughter is a devoted humanitarian.”
“Indeed,” exclaimed Mr. Somerset before Jane could respond. “A toast! Jane, fetch the sherry!”
“Father, really. Your condition.”
“Nonsense. A glass with you, Captain Perry.”
Jane shook her head in exasperation, but then obeyed because protesting further would do no good. She poured the amber liquid into three small glasses and distributed them. Her father lifted his glass in a prost enthusiastically. Malcolm lifted his to Jane, whose cheeks were flushed with embarrassment.
Chapter 11