Mission of Hope. Allie Pleiter

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      “No, I mean with the benefactors. I know someone who can help. We had a wealthy woman named Mrs. Hastings to tea at the house the other day. She’s wanted to see the ruined city but her husband won’t let her come any farther than our house.” Nora looked at Quinn. “What if we could get Mrs. Hastings to tour Grace House? Surely her husband couldn’t object to something like that? Then she could meet people. She could meet Reverend Bauers. I’ve heard so much about him, even I’d like to meet Reverend Bauers. It’s the perfect solution.”

      Quinn stopped walking and looked at her. “You’ve never met Reverend Bauers?”

      He made it sound as if her social upbringing lacked a crucial element. “Well, of course I’ve shaken his hand at some city ceremony at some time or another, but I don’t really know him. I only know of him. Papa knows him, I think, but not socially.”

      Those words came out wrong. As if people like Papa didn’t socialize with people like Reverend Bauers. It was true, in some ways, but not in the way her words made it sound. Quinn had noticed. He stood up straighter, started walking again, and the set of his jaw hardened just enough for her to notice.

      Nora reached out and caught his elbow. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

      “No one ever does.” The edge in his voice betrayed the wound her words had caused.

      “No, really. It was a horrid way to put it. I just meant…” What did she just mean? She’d said it without thinking, without consideration, of what Mama would have called “their differences in station.” Why consider some great foolish gulf between them—especially now, when all that seemed to matter so very little? She dropped her hand. “I don’t know what I meant. But I’ve not met Reverend Bauers and I would very much like to. And I want to help. I believe Mrs. Hastings will want to help, too, if we can show her Grace House. Please. I know she will.”

      “If she honestly wants to help, and not just gawk at other folks’ hardship. I’ve seen those types. Riding in carriages around the edge of our camp with hankies pressed to their noses. As if we’re all some odd entertainment.”

      “Mrs. Hastings can be a bit stuffy, but I think she truly does want to help. She just doesn’t know how. Or maybe just where to start. I know something good would come of it if we could just make the arrangements.” Suddenly, it had become the most urgent thing in the world. Something large and important she could do to make things better. And surely, once she’d been to Grace House with Mrs. Hastings, Papa might let her do more than just sit around and wind bandages. Mrs. Hastings had loads of friends with all sorts of connections. Even Mama would be delighted to work on projects with someone of the Hastingses’ stature. It was the most perfect of ideas.

      Quinn’s expression softened. “I’ll see what I can do.”

      Chapter Seven

      “You’ve left your side unprotected,” Major Simon warned. “I could have run you through four minutes ago.”

      “So you said,” Quinn panted as he wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. Major Simon was proving to be a merciless teacher. Just a moment ago he’d planted the tip of his sword over Quinn’s pounding heart and declared with an annoying calm that in a real duel, Quinn’s life would have come to an abrupt end. Something in his eyes made Quinn believe he could do it. Part of him suspected the major had taken more than one life—in battle or otherwise—but the wiser part of him decided he didn’t really want to know.

      “Die? Right here?” Quinn challenged as he regained his footing. It was useful to discover he didn’t at all like being on what Mr. Covington had once called “the business end” of a sword. Quinn vowed to remember the unpleasant sensation of having a blade planted gingerly on his chest—and vowed it would never happen again.

      “Hardly sporting of me, I know,” Simon pronounced as he flicked the blade away.

      “Speaking of sporting…” With a swift move, Quinn skidded down and forward, making sure his tattered boot collided with Major Simon’s foot, sending the stocky officer off balance. With another kick, he knocked Simon’s remaining knee sideways so that the major came down to the floor in a crash of weapons.

      He shot Quinn a nasty look, then laughed. “One does not kick in fencing!”

      Quinn held out a hand, telling himself it would be unsporting to enjoy the moment but enjoying it immensely. Simon had kept the upper hand for most of the hour, anyway. “Were we fencing?”

      Simon took Quinn’s extended hand and pulled himself to his feet. “That was entirely uncalled for. And downright clever. An old general of mine used to say that the best use for rules was knowing when to break them.” He slid the foil into the holder at his hip. “I dare say it’s a lesson you already know.”

      “Life can be a good teacher of some things.”

      “And not others. You kicked me because you were angry, not because it was a good strategy. It worked this time. It won’t the next.” He pointed a finger at Quinn as he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. “You fight with too much emotion, Freeman. We’ll have to work to cool that temper of yours. Give me your hand.” He held out his hand to shake Quinn’s.

      Matthew Covington had insisted they shake hands at the end of every fencing lesson or duel as well. Quinn pulled off his glove and held out his hand.

      At which point Simon grabbed it, held it, and before Quinn could even blink, had produced a short dagger from his boot and dragged it sharply down Quinn’s forearm.

      “Ouch!” Quinn yelled as a thick line of blood pooled where Simon had scratched—no, sliced him. He just barely bit back a retort that would have made Ma’s ears burn. “What the…”

      “No broken rule goes without consequences. Every knife hurts, especially the one you didn’t see coming.” Simon handed Quinn the handkerchief. “Next time you face me, you’ll think twice. A small price to pay for wisdom.”

      Quinn stood, staring at the man, unable to piece together the gentleman with the savage who’d just calmly cut him.

      “It’s but a scratch,” Simon said, “and the first lesson I give all my best students.”

      “Some compliment,” Quinn muttered. “What will happen to me if you really like me?”

      Simon looked him straight in the eye. “You’ll live.”

      As he stood in Reverend Bauers’s study that afternoon, wincing at the excess of iodine the pastor dabbed over his forearm, Quinn recounted the major’s painful lesson.

      “I can’t say I care for his methods, but Simon makes an important point.” The reverend smiled. “No pun intended.”

      Quinn thought about the tip of Simon’s foil skewered into his chest. “He’s a wild sort, he is. Dangerous.”

      “No, I think that Major Simon is just a man aware of how dangerous a game we aim to play here. The moment you forget yourself in the name of playing hero, that’s the moment any fool could come out of the shadows and take you.” He put a clean bandage over the wound. “How’ll you explain that cut to your ma?”

      “I’ll worry about that later.” Quinn looked at the reverend. СКАЧАТЬ