Masked by Moonlight (15 page)

R
everend Bauers clasped Matthew’s arm with great enthusiasm the next morning. “My son, I could not be happier to hear what you have said.” He eased himself down on the fountain rim, patting the ledge beside him in an invitation for Matthew to join him.

Matthew couldn’t suppress a smile as he sat beside the old man. The reverend’s rampant enthusiasm for Matthew’s newfound faith was as entertaining as it was heartwarming. The man was practically giddy, exclaiming that he couldn’t have been more surprised. The knowing smirk behind his smile, however, hinted that he’d suspected nothing less. In fact, he looked so satisfied that Matthew hadn’t wondered if Bauers himself had been beseeching God to go after him all along. He felt as if God
had
been after him from the moment he’d set foot on American soil. Bauers laughed heartily when Matthew admitted as much to him.

“I’ve been waiting more than a few years for the right set of hands to receive that Bible. I won’t say I wasn’t surprised when God said you were him—it did seem like a bit of a long shot, if you don’t mind my saying. But I’ve learned to trust God’s vision as better than my own. He has been waiting for you, even when you could not see it. Even when
I
could not see it.” The reverend folded his arms across his chest and narrowed his eyes at Matthew. “I believe God has special plans for your…how shall we say it? Your ‘unique talents.’”

Matthew took the chubby hand of this man who had become so dear to him in such a short time. “You are more kind than I am talented, Reverend.”

“I find myself debating whether you are going to tell Miss Waterhouse that you are the Bandit, or that you care for her. Or is it both? You do seem to be a man given to extremes.”

“Reverend, I—”

Bauers waved his protest away. “Come now, do you think I cannot see it? I believe I knew it even before you did. When you brought her favorite flowers, my suspicions were only confirmed.” His face grew serious. “Yesterday, I would have done my best to dissuade you. Miss Waterhouse is dear to me, and I’ll not have her hurt.”

“And today?” Matthew asked, still dumbfounded that Bauers knew at all. Had it been that obvious?

“And today I’ll still not have her hurt, even if you now share a common faith. She’s an uncommon woman. I’ll not have you toying with her affections, Covington. Her heart is very tender. Don’t venture where you do not mean to stay.”

Matthew sighed. “That’s just it, Reverend, I cannot say where I will be in a month’s time. It is why I cannot declare my…affections…now.”

“Then why even…” The Reverend’s face darkened as Matthew pulled a white ribbon from his pocket. “Oh, you do not mean to…Covington, can you not see the wrong in that?”

“To have the Bandit declare himself as an admirer of hers? And why not? No one seems to notice all that she does. She exists only as Stuart Waterhouse’s shadow. His conscience. His keeper. I cannot give her encouragement for any kind of future. But the Bandit can pay her some attention.”

“What good is that? It is a fantasy, Covington.” Bauers raised his hands in the air. “Does she not deserve the admiration of a real man? Would you hand her a lie?”

“I have nothing else to give her. She would no sooner join me in England than I could cut off ties and stay here.” Matthew lowered his voice. “Have you seen the way she looks when she speaks of the Bandit? She admires the hero. I wouldn’t be surprised if Stuart wrote the episodes just for her.”

Bauers’s eyebrows knit together. “She deserves better.”

Matthew stood up. “She deserves far more than I can give her.”

“She deserves the truth. Not more shadows. Covington, don’t.”

“Bauers, you should know by now I’m not much good at doing as I am told.”

The air was clear and pleasant as Matthew slipped into position Saturday night and waited.

She came out onto the terrace, pulling a shawl around her shoulders against the breeze. She looked beautiful, bathed in the splash of light that came from the French doors. Her gown and hair glowed in the blue-black, moonless night. It was like something out of a Shakespeare sonnet. He felt the urge to burst out of the bushes and declare his affections for her, to sweep her off her feet and ride into the sunset, like the fantasy she admired.

Instead, he waited until her back was to him. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a white ribbon tied to a small stone. In a slightly accented voice, he said, “Do not turn around, Miss Waterhouse. I mean you no harm, but you must not turn.” He tossed the stone so that the white strip sailed into her view.

She gasped and gave a start, but did not turn. “Oh!” she exclaimed, pulling her shawl more tightly around her. He watched her plant her feet. “I…I shall remain where I am.”

Matthew took a cautious step out of the bushes. “You think that no one sees, that no one knows the good you do, but you are wrong. I have seen. I know. You are a fine and admirable woman, Georgia Waterhouse.” It was overly dramatic, but then again, this was a memory he was building, a memory to last a lifetime. If Stuart wrote such high drama to please her, then it must be high drama that she desired.

He took two more steps toward her, and with the tip of his sword he pushed the French doors closed, so that less light spilled out onto the terrace.

She heard his steps, saw the sword push the doors, and reacted. He heard her breath quicken, watched the way her body tensed. Two more steps brought him near enough. He could reach out and touch her hair, she was that close to him. He thought, as he looked at her in the moonlight, that if she turned, if he saw her eyes, there would be no hope for him. He would surrender to the overpowering urge to embrace her, to kiss her, and be lost forever.

God above,
he prayed,
do not let her turn. I am not that strong.

“W
ho are you?” she whispered, her voice a mixture of thrill and fear.

“An admirer,” he said, wanting to say much more. He had thought of a dozen things to say, a dozen heroic, romantic things, just like the Bandit would say, but they all fled his mind in the reality of the moment.

“How did you know I wrote them?” she gasped.

What?
Matthew nearly stumbled in his shock.
She wrote them?
Georgia wrote the Bandit stories?

Of course Georgia wrote them. Suddenly, it all made perfect sense. How could he not have seen that? How could he not have considered it? She wrote them. She was George Towers. It seemed almost obvious now.

It was
her
words he’d read to her—that was why she’d reacted so. Her words he’d mocked, thinking they were Stuart’s ploys—and that was why it hurt her so. Her hero that he impersonated. The knowledge was so intimate, so terrifying, that he had trouble thinking clearly.

“The Bandit knows many things,” he finally choked out. Such a ridiculous response. Then again, he was so stunned, he was lucky to have remembered to speak in an accent at all, much less wax eloquent under the circumstances.

She wrote them. She was George.

Leave it to Georgia Waterhouse to take his surprise for her and send it back upon himself threefold.

She wrote the Bandit.

He was at a complete loss.

“Will I ever know who you are?” she asked breathlessly.

He thought his heart would split open if he stayed a second longer. He must get out of there as fast as possible. He whispered, “God bless you, Georgia Waterhouse. Good night and good Easter,” and backed away.

Stuart could not have been more surprised when Georgia told him of Matthew Covington’s newfound faith.

“Covington?” Stuart sputtered over his coffee as they sat in the parlor after Easter dinner. “What have you done to him, the pair of you?”

Georgia fingered the lilies from her birthday bouquet, still brilliant and fragrant in their vase by the window. “The pair of us?”

“You and Bauers. Covington’s not even an American citizen. Evangelizing the tourists, are we now?”

“God is no respecter of borders,” Georgia retorted, turning to face her brother. The strength in her own voice surprised her. “He’d even take you in, should you ever come to your senses.”

Stuart shook his head. “I’m thinking it’s Covington who needs to come to his senses.”

“Stuart,” she chided. Tonight she found she could no longer endure his insults to her faith. “That’s enough of that.”

He looked up at her. When she stared at him, he pursed his lips and returned to his coffee without another word.

He had complied.

Normally, when Stuart went too far—which was almost always—she would swallow her feelings and silently endure. Today she stood her ground. And survived. She pulled in a deep breath of courage and pressed forward. “I’ve been thinking about your ball.”

“
Your
ball,” he corrected.

“No, it was
your
ball, Stuart. Given for me, I suppose. But I’ve decided to accept. I’d like you to have the ball for me, but I’d like to make a few changes.”

That got her brother’s complete attention.

“Such as?”

“It will be a charity ball, raising money for Grace House. The First Annual Bandit’s Charity Ball. Every man who donates may come dressed as the Bandit. And you’ll see to it that every man donates, won’t you, Stuart?”

“A hundred Bandits? Peach, are you serious?”

She crossed her arms over her chest and went to stand before him. “Quite. It will be a sensation. You’ll gain loads of press, and I’ll gain enough money to ensure that Grace House never lacks for what it needs.” She held out her hand. “Do we have a bargain?”

Stuart looked up. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Do we have a bargain?”

He turned the idea over in his mind for a moment, looking, she was sure, for the escape clause. There wasn’t one. Everyone got what they wanted in this bargain, including her. She had to admit it felt wonderful.

“I believe we do.” He shook her hand.

Georgia leaned down, brought his hand to her and kissed it. “Brilliant. I’ll have the list of things you need to do on your desk by tomorrow morning. How many waltzes are there in the Gilbert and Sullivan works, anyway?”

He gazed at her, mouth agape. “I don’t know,” he said slowly.

“Really? I was sure you would. Well, we’d best find out so we can give the list to the orchestra this week.”

“Waltzes.”

“Yes, Stuart, waltzes. Lots of them. They’re my favorite. And red roses. Only red roses. But with white ribbons, of course. Yards and yards of white ribbons.”

“Georgia,” her brother said, furrowing his brow, “are you ill?”

“Not at all.” She smiled back at him. “I’m just plain wonderful.”

M
atthew found Reverend Bauers on Grace House’s front steps Monday morning, fixing the doorknob. “I need to speak with you,” he said, pulling the clergyman into the mission by his elbow.

“Goodness,” chuckled the reverend, who barely had enough time to put aside his tools. “Would that all my converts were so enthusiastic. But I didn’t see you at Easter services.”

“I had some matters to attend to.” Bauers frowned, but Matthew pressed on. “Things have just become a good deal more interesting…” he lowered his voice “…in the area of my ‘unique talents.’”

The reverend gave him a surprised look and ushered him into his study.

“I know the author of the Bandit episodes,” Matthew declared the moment the door was shut.

“Stuart revealed himself to you? However did you accomplish that?”

Matthew sat down in one of the study chairs. “I did no such thing. Georgia told me.”

The reverend settled beside him. “I’d forgotten that you were speaking to her. Tell me, does she share your feelings?”

“Bauers,
she
writes the Bandit. Georgia is George Towers.”

“Georgia?” Bauers stared at him. “
Georgia?
She admitted such to you?”

“She admitted such to
him.
I believe I startled it out of her—I don’t believe she planned to tell me—him.”

Reverend Bauers leaned his elbows on his knees. With a heavy sigh, he dropped his head into his hand. “Covington, can you not see the terrible folly in all this?”

“Georgia writes the Bandit.”

“Georgia writes the Bandit. And you have just as much as lied to her. Despite your feelings for her, of which she knows nothing. No, instead you have directed her attentions to an imaginary man who just
happens to be you.”
The reverend looked up at him. “Yes, I am surprised. I had not known Georgia had such talents, nor did I suspect she held such sway over Stuart. But my surprise pales against my concern for what
you
are doing. Look, she is due here within the hour. I will arrange for you to be uninterrupted in the garden. Tell her, son, and do the right thing.”

“I cannot.”

“You could, but you will not.” Bauers stood up. “You would if you really cared for her at all.”

A storm brewed in the back of Matthew’s throat. “I care too much for her. I care
too much
to encourage her where there is no future.”

“After all you have seen this past week, how can you say that? Who knows what God has planned? And yet you would deceive her into caring for an illusion?” The clergyman pointed a finger at him. “You have poached off her imagination, that’s what you have done. Can you live with that?”

Matthew would never have believed he’d need to quash the urge to punch a member of the clergy. He’d chosen an unorthodox path with Georgia, he was well aware of that. But it was his choice to make. He could not share his future with Georgia. He would not wrench her away from her home. Was the Bandit’s visit deceit? Of course it was, and some part of him ached for what he had done. But it was overthrown by his ache to be near her. For that gasp she’d made when she understood the Bandit was behind her. Matthew hadn’t even realized how much until that moment. But it could not be. “Now look here, Bauers…” he growled.

A knock hushed him. “Gentlemen?” Georgia’s voice called from behind the study door. “Reverend Bauers?”

Bauers opened the door.

“I heard voices raised,” she continued, stepping into the room. “You two arguing? What on earth could bring you to that?”

“We were…debating a course of action,” the reverend said, throwing a cold glare at Matthew.

She tugged on the ribbon that held her hat, and took it off. “Who won?”

“It is as of yet undetermined,” Matthew said tersely.

Matthew watched her face. He could practically read her decision to move forward despite whatever it was she thought she’d interrupted. There was a fascinating new boldness to her features. “Well, then,” she said, walking farther into the study, “I shall be happy to provide a very large and pleasant diversion.”

“And what would that be?” Reverend Bauers asked.

“Stuart is throwing a ball. A Bandit Ball, later this month. And I’ve convinced him to make it a charity event to support Grace House.”

“A Bandit Ball?” Matthew repeated, the storm in his throat turning to a great lump. “This month?”

“Two weeks from Saturday. Every man who donates can come dressed as the Black Bandit. It is at once publicity, philanthropy and a chance for our newfound hero to show himself among a bevy of admirers.”

“What an extraordinary idea,” Reverend Bauers said, the strain in his voice almost hidden. “Miss Waterhouse, you and your brother outdo yourselves.”

“It is mostly Stuart,” she said. “But in this case I am delighted to help matters along.”

Lord, Heavenly Father, what have I done?
Matthew wondered if God had not shown up in his life at precisely the right moment. Or precisely the wrong one. “Most extraordinary,” he said, at a loss for any other reply.

“Mr. Covington, please tell me you will be able to attend.”

It’s not as if I’ll need to find a costume,
Matthew thought absurdly. “I can think of nothing more intriguing.” And to think he’d found sedating chickens complicated a mere week ago.

“The door! I just remembered I left my tools on the front steps. Covington, would you mind helping Miss Waterhouse transport a few boxes of material down the street to the convent storeroom? I had hoped to help her myself, but…” Bauers gave a poorly rehearsed shrug and bolted from the study.

Matthew shook his head after the less-than-subtle departure.

“You and I seem to have an odd, flight-inducing effect on people,” Georgia said with a lopsided smile. “But I am glad for the chance to talk with you. Tell me, how are you? I can remember believing from my earliest years, but in some ways I envy the man or woman who comes to faith in the full awareness of adulthood. It must be an incredible experience.” She gazed at Matthew. “You looked as if someone had lit a firecracker inside you Friday night.”

An apt metaphor. But more like a dozen explosives. “I can’t say I’ve sorted it out yet. Some things feel settled, others feel completely jumbled. I’m still the same man, and yet I’m not.” He knew it was unsafe territory, and yet he could not resist. “And how are you? How was your Easter?”

She did not reply right away, but instead headed down the mission hallway. “I must confess I was feeling despondent of late.” She glanced at Matthew for a moment. “It is not always pleasant to be the ‘other Waterhouse.’ One feels small and unnoticed every now and then.”

I could never ignore you,
Matthew thought, but said nothing.

“Several things on Easter drove me to a long time of prayer. I’ll not tire you with what they were. But I was reminded of all the souls who worked in obscurity, keeping their eye on God. Whom He sees. Sister Charlotte calls it ‘the audience of One.’ I’ve come to understand her now. It’s given me a strength of sorts, I suppose.” Georgia shook her head. “My goodness, I think I’ve rambled on, when you were so kind to ask. But it has been important to me, this awareness—oh, that’s not the word. But I—I’m not making any sense, am I?”

Matthew felt a pang of remorse. Here he was, thinking he could craft an affirmation for her. She, in her wisdom, had gone looking for affirmation in the place where it truly mattered. How he flattered himself to think
he’d
brought that strength to her step. How God must laugh at his idiocies today. Matthew stared at her, thinking her so far above him that he could never hope to reach her level.

“What you must think of me.” She blushed.

You have no idea,
Matthew mused.