Free Cannonbridge by Jonathan Barnes Page A

speak.
    “You asked me my name, madam. I am Matthew Cannonbridge. And you?”
    Our heroine seems to hesitate, as if uncertain quite which name to give. “You can call me Maria. Maria Monk.”
    “Come in,” Cannonbridge says, motioning her to walk further into the room—a place of rare, almost continental luxury with its carpet even thicker than that which had lain outside, its drawing room atmosphere, armchairs and reading tables and, at the far corner of Maria’s vision, a hint of a bedroom beyond.
    “I should thank you.”
    “You are most welcome. I...” Cannonbridge hesitates, as if suspecting that the admission may not cast him in the best possible light. “I saw you. Outside. On the street. I saw you from my window here. And I saw that you were... pursued.”
    Maria gazes up at the older man. “You were watching me?”
    “Only because I was concerned. Yet somehow I knew that you would find me. You were being followed, were you not?”
    “I was. Those men... they will not lightly be deterred.”
    “There is murder in their eyes, I think.”
    “If I do not give them what they wish of me, then... yes.”
    For a moment the couple merely look at one another. Outside, the corridor is still. Nevertheless, Miss Monk remains anxious. “You do not mean to ask me why they were in pursuit of me?”
    “I do not see that it is any of my business, madam. I perceive merely that you are in distress. It is my duty, if I can, to alleviate that.”
    “You’re... you’re very kind. Yet you want nothing from me?”
    Cannonbridge, perplexed: “Nothing, madam.”
    “Then... then may I stay here awhile? I have no wish to bring trouble down upon you.”
    Cannonbridge gives her a wintry smile. “Trouble, madam, has a habit of finding me.”
    The young woman smiles, amused by his swagger. Then she seems to stumble slightly, taking two steps backwards, her balance suddenly unsteady.
    “Forgive me, Miss Monk. You must be tired. Hungry.”
    “I do... feel a little faint.”
    All at once, as the trials of the past few days seem to crowd around her, as her body finally allows itself to accept all of the exertions that she has placed upon it, Maria finds herself beset by dizziness. “Sir?” she murmurs.
    “Yes?”
    “Your name... is half-familiar to me. You are... yes, you are a writer, are you not?”
    Cannonbridge is about to reply, in as modest a set of terms as he can muster, when he sees that the young lady is about to fall into a swoon. Heedless of convention, he steps closer and, four seconds later, when she faints, he is able to catch her in his arms.
     
     
    W HEN M ARIA AWAKES it is full dark. It must be the small hours of the morning as the gas lamps have been extinguished on the street outside. Indeed, the darkness is so total that it seems to her to be almost the darkness of the countryside. Her first thought is that, by some miracle, she has been returned home, that she has woken in St John’s once more and that all is well.
    Gradually, she remembers and becomes aware of her surroundings. Boston. The Kittiwake. She must be in his room, she realises. He must have placed her in his own bed. But if she is in the bed, then where...?
    A voice in the darkness: “You’re awake.”
    “Yes.” The word is whispered. She scarcely dares to move. “Have you been... watching over me?” The concept ought to be a disquieting one and yet, somehow, for all her grave experiences, in this place, with this man and at this time, it does not seem so. Rather, she feels, unexpectedly, a certain comfort in his proximity.
    “Is there anything that I can fetch for you? Food? Water?”
    “No. No, thank you.”
    “I want you to understand that, so long as you remain here, you are quite safe. You are under my protection now.”
    “Thank you. But I need... to get to New York.”
    “I see. Then, perhaps, you’ll let me help?”
    “Why ever would you want to, sir? I can offer you nothing.”
    “I try to help people. Where I