A flock of white egrets took to the sky, startled by something near the river’s edge. Charles instinctively slipped into a copse of trees.
“I seen him come this way,” someone said. “High falutin he was, too. Real fancy dressed.”
Another man chortled and spat. “Well, he can’t have gone far. We’ll get him. And then we’ll teach ’em to stay where they belong.”
“Don’t forget, I get his stickpin.”
Charles automatically reached for his pistol and grabbed empty air. The delegation had been instructed to exemplify peace. Consequently, he was unarmed.
Moving so slowly, so fluidly, that the roosting wild birds were not disturbed, he inched backward until his shoulders met the trunk of an enormous oak. Then he consciously calmed his mind and waited.
Leaves rustled. Nearby bushes shook.
The would-be assailants were nearly upon him.
* * *
Annabelle’s supper with Johnny had been uneventful except that he had eaten little. She felt so sorry for him she didn’t argue when he asked, “May I go up to my room?”
“Of course. I know you must be weary.”
“Are you coming upstairs?”
“In a few minutes,” she replied. “I have one errand to take care of first. Go ahead. I’ll be up soon.”
She watched him climb the stairs, then turned to check the empty hallway. There was pen and ink in a writing desk tucked into an alcove off the parlor. While the Eatons were dining, she could avail herself of the opportunity to write a short note to Charles—Mr. McDonald. The mere thought made her blush and hurry toward the desk. She must not be observed, nor did she dare let anyone see to whom her innocent letter was addressed. Not if she hoped to be able to carry out her plan and stop the child from fleeing.
She dipped the nib in the inkwell and began, “Dear Sir,” ending with her signature and placing his name on the outside of the folded note paper. Her penmanship was not perfect because she’d had so little chance to practice and because her hands were trembling, but it would suffice. It would have to.
Replacing everything she had moved and used, she quietly closed the slanted lid of the desk and slipped the note into her pocket.
A quick, furtive check of her surroundings confirmed that she was still alone and she quietly headed for the carriage house to seek out one of the grooms and ask him to carry her missive to Plunkett’s.
Although the sun had set, the moon was nearly full and there was plenty of reflected light from the lampposts lining the broad avenues of the capitol as she entered the rear garden. A few couples strolled arm in arm outside the iron fence while drays and coaches went about their business in the street.
Annabelle had swung a thin, gray cape around her shoulders as soon as she was outside. Now she lifted the hood, less for warmth than to hide her passage through the garden.
She patted her pocket. The sooner the note was delivered, the sooner she’d stop worrying.
In the street beyond the familiar garden path a teamster snapped his whip and shouted, “Out of my way!”
Curiosity caused her to look. Astonishment stopped her cold. Was that...? Could it be...? She’d left him only a few minutes ago, yet the young boy in the street looked terribly familiar. And with good reason.
Heart pounding, Annabelle almost called out, “Johnny!” before she thought better of it. So far, no harm had been done. If she could overtake him and get him back into the house before either of them was missed she might save everyone a lot of unnecessary grief.
She fumbled the gate latch in her nervousness, thereby slowing her progress. By the time she reached the street the boy had vanished.
Where would he go? Washington was a big city and they were both on foot. If she were Johnny, what would she do?
“Go back to the boardinghouse where the Cherokees are staying,” Annabelle guessed. She had to be right. If Johnny disappeared in a city this vast, his chances of being hurt or accosted were immense, particularly since he didn’t blend in with the dirty street urchins who were out and about at this hour.
Nervous, she glanced back at the house. Few lamps were glowing. No one would miss her. Gathering a handful of her skirt and cape she hurried in the direction where she had last spied the runaway child.
Prayer was on her lips. “Please, God, please. Help me? Guide me?”
It was then that she realized her Heavenly Father already had. She already knew that the boardinghouse the Cherokees had chosen was only a block or so past the cathedral where the family worshipped every Sunday. She knew the way.
Circumventing trouble as best she could, she darted back and forth across the broad streets, dodging coaches and buggies while evading those individuals who might wish to do her harm. She had never ventured out alone at night and the face of the city was quite different than she had expected.
The boardinghouse Annabelle sought was built in the Federalist style with tall, narrow banks of windows facing the street and a small porch that led directly into the parlor. Seeing Plunkett’s finely lettered sign gave her hope and renewed energy.
Before she’d taken two steps up the front stairs, however, Johnny burst out the door and ran past, snatching away what was left of her breath.
She lunged to grab his sleeve.
He struggled, twisting and kicking.
“Johnny! Stop. It’s me.” She pushed back her hood so he could better see her features.
“We have to go.” Johnny pointed. “This way.”
“No. I came to speak to your uncle.”
“That is why we have to go,” the boy insisted. “The man inside said he went to the river.”
“He’ll be back. We can stay here and wait.”
The child tore himself from her grasp. “No! It is not good. We must find him.”
Annabelle was unconvinced. Now that they had both made it to the boardinghouse the most sensible choice was to tarry there.
Unfortunately, Johnny was already running again.
“All right,” she called, quickly recovering. “Wait for me. I’m coming.”
They soon left the open streets for a parklike area and slowed to a walk because there was no artificial light. Patches of fog drifted in front of them as if clouds had sunk to earth, muting even the moon glow.
Johnny abruptly grasped her hand and tugged. “Stop.”
Annabelle’s breath caught. “Why? I thought you were in a hurry.”
Rethinking their possibly tenuous safety, she pushed back the hood of her satin cape once again and bent over him to speak more softly. “What’s wrong?”
“Men. Bad men. Fighting.” He pointed.
She had barely made out shadowy shapes when there was a muffled shout. The boy broke free and raced toward the altercation!
“Johnny, no!” Fisting her skirt she ran after him.
Someone yelled.
Annabelle drew closer. Her eyes widened. “Oh, no!”
A well-dressed gentleman was doing hand-to-hand battle with two ruffians and it was impossible to tell who had the upper hand. Now she understood the boy. Charles McDonald was being attacked and although he seemed to be holding his own at the moment, he was definitely outnumbered.
Charles