Sweet Awakening

by Marjorie Farrell

  “But if there is even the slightest chance they may contact Oldfield or one of the others, you must be there. Is there anything else we can do?”

  “Short of getting someone into number 75 and choking the truth out of one of them, I can’t say there is, sir.”

  “I’d be happy to do so, but I’d never make it past the first door, either! And I don’t want them to know they have the wrong man.”

  * * * *

  The first day in the cellar was not so bad, for Giles slept most of it away due to the aftereffects of the chloroform. He was shaken awake for supper by Mr. Toad, as he had come to think of him. Supper was a bowl of clear broth with a few vegetables floating around in it and one grisly piece of lamb. By that time, Giles’s stomach had settled, and he was hungry enough to find it edible. He was left with a small candle and a few matches, but shortly after supper he blew out the light and went to sleep.

  The next morning all traces of his headache were gone, and he was beginning to feel restless. He was pacing the room when his breakfast arrived, this time delivered by his taller jailer.

  “Ere ye go, gov. A bowl of porridge and a cup of coffee.”

  The porridge was a gelatinous mess, burned on the bottom and with no sweetening, and the coffee had so much sugar in it that a spoon could have been stuck up in it. Giles was almost tempted to pour one upon the other, but resisted.

  “How long do you intend to keep me here?" he demanded.

  “Why, ye know the answer to that, Mr. More.”

  “I suppose I do,” Giles admitted. He thought Andrew had said Oldfield was the name of one of the proprietors. He fervently hoped so. “Oldfield and the rest will never get away with this, you know. Nor will you.”

  “Oh, hi should think they will,” the ex-pugilist said, tacitly confirming Giles’s suspicions. “And hif they don’t, we will. There ain’t nuffink to connect them to us.”

  Just as the man was about to leave, Giles said: “My chamber pot needs to be emptied.”

  “Why, as to that, gov, we ain’t got no downstairs maid,” replied the tall man with a wink and left.

  Giles finished his breakfast and sat down on his cot. His captors did not seem to mean him harm, but this was obviously not going to be a pleasant few days.

  * * * *

  By the beginning of their third day of waiting for news, Sabrina and Clare were exhausted. They had decided to follow their regular schedule in order to prevent any gossip, and the effort of maintaining appearances was wearing them out. They were convinced it was worth the effort, nevertheless, since no one seemed to doubt their story about Giles’s emergency trip to Whitton.

  At home, Sabrina was the one in the most obvious distress, and when Andrew visited that morning to keep them up on reports from the Runner, he was amazed at how calm Clare seemed and how distraught Sabrina was.

  “Has Mr. Ruthven seen anyone ‘round St. James Street yet,” Clare asked calmly.

  “No, but I think it important to keep him there.”

  “Can we not do anything else, Andrew,?" demanded Sabrina. “I feel so helpless, sitting here in touch with Giles’s distress and unable to take action.”

  “If you wish, I will go to St. James Street myself, Sabrina, and tell them they have got the wrong man. Maybe I should have done that immediately.” He hated watching Sabrina in this state.

  “No, Andrew. We still have no evidence they are behind this,” said Clare.

  “Oh, Clare,” Sabrina exclaimed, “Of course we know they are.”

  “And if they are, what might they do to you and Giles if you confront them? We can’t risk it, at least not yet.” Clare put her arms around Sabrina. “We know through you that Giles is still alive, Brina. We will just have to assume that they will release him as soon as they realize their mistake.” Clare turned to Andrew. “Sabrina has been pacing the drawing room for an hour. A walk in the park is just what she needs, and I do not have the energy. Would you take her, Andrew?”

  “Of course. Clare is right, Sabrina. You need to get out.”

  Sabrina offered a token protest, and then allowed herself to be convinced.

  After they had gone, Clare went up to her bedchamber and stood by the window. The small garden below was gray-green and brown. The crab apple tree in the corner had dropped all its leaves but not its fruit, and was heavy with small golden crabs. On another day, Clare might have appreciated the picture, but despite her calm appearance, she, too, was fearful for Giles’s safety.

  She had spoken the truth to her sister-in-law: she did trust Sabrina’s feeling that Giles was not dead. But what did they know of these men after all? Did they really plan to release “Andrew More” after the trial? It would be dangerous for them not to, it was true. Yet they seemed to have covered themselves well. They seemed to have hired two ruffians with no direct connection to the gaming hell or themselves. What might these ruffians do to Giles?

  Of course, if they knew they had Lord Whitton, the kidnappers at least might be more interested in collecting a ransom. But Clare knew Giles very well: he would surely have guessed why he had been taken, and would never dream of spoiling Andrew’s case by identifying himself. He was a dear, chivalrous idiot, thought Clare, her eyes filling up with tears.

  She would not cry. She had not cried yet, although Sabrina had. But if any harm came to Giles, she did not know how she would survive.

  She stood there for a while, lost in thought, and then rang for Martha. When her abigail arrived, Clare gave her a wintry smile. “I need you to accompany me to Bruton Street, Martha.”

  “Bruton Street?”

  “Yes. We are going to purchase a pistol.”

  * * * *

  The shop attendant was surprised to see a lady of quality at his counter. It was not the fact that she wanted to purchase a pistol; their gunsmiths had designed several lovely little guns that fit right in a lady’s reticule. But ladies of the ton usually sent their husbands or brothers. It was rarely that one actually stepped into the shop.

  “I have a beautiful mother-of-pearl-handled pistol that would fit comfortably in your hand, my lady.”

  Clare let him drop it in her palm and closed her hand around it. She shuddered as the movement brought back the evening of Justin’s death.

  “It is very small,” she managed to whisper.

  “Why, yes, just the right size for a lady’s reticule.”

  “How effective is it?”

  The clerk looked puzzled. “It will afford you protection, my lady, should anyone try to become too bold, shall we say.”

  “Yes, I can see that it might discourage unwanted suitors. But I am looking for something a bit more substantial. Something that would be frightening to a criminal type.”

  Martha and the clerk exchanged surprised glances.

  “Hmmm.”

  “You see, I am going on a journey alone to join my husband, and although I will have outriders, I would be grateful for a pistol I can keep with me in the coach. Against highwaymen, you understand.”

  “Of course, of course. Well, in that case, here is something that may fit your needs. It will fit into a muff or a small basket next to you.”

  Clare balanced the pistol in her hand. It was smaller than Justin’s pair, but looked lethal enough.

  “And bullets?”

  “Of course. I can show you how to load it.”

  “There is no need for that,” Clare announced. “My ... uh ... brother can give me lessons before I leave. If you could just load it for me now, please.”

  “Oh, I do not recommend that you walk around with a loaded gun, my lady,” the clerk said, rather horrified.

  “Nevertheless, I wish to purchase it loaded,” Clare said insistently.

  “Yes, my lady.”

  * * * *

  When they were out on the street again, Martha stepped in front of her mistress.

  “Now just what is this all about, my lady? Whatever do you need a pistol for? And don’t try to give me that cock-and-bul
l story of a long journey to meet your husband. We all in the servants’ hall know that something has happened to Lord Whitton.” Martha had both hands on her hips, and Clare laughed naturally for the first time since Giles had disappeared.

  “Oh, thank God for you, Martha,” she said.

  Martha belatedly became conscious of how she sounded and how she was standing.

  “I beg your pardon, my lady. But I am right, nevertheless.”

  “I know you only want to protect me, Martha. But I cannot think of another way to do this, truly I cannot. Believe me, I had thought never to even look at a pistol again. I cannot tell you what I am planning to do, but you must trust that I can take care of myself. And, I hope, my husband.”

  Chapter Thirty

  By the third day of captivity, Giles would have welcomed any rescuer. The cellar room was fetid with its own ancient odors as well as the unemptied chamber pot.

  His captors had not seemed personally hostile at first. Indeed, he told himself daily, they were not personally hostile now: just hostile. When he had asked to have the chamber pot removed, Mr. Toad just laughed in a particularly nasty way and said: “Do hi look loike a chambermaid? This ain’t Fenton’s, gov. Hif you are filling that up, we will ‘ave to stop filling you up. Hit’ll cost us less in the keeping of you.”

  And so they had, on the second day, cut him back to two meals and only one pitcher of water.

  When he asked for a book, or at least a piece of paper and a pen, they laughed in his face.

  This was not, he realized, only going to be a matter of sitting tight for a few days.

  He had never been so powerless before, so at the mercy of another’s whims. He spent the days trying to remember and recite every bit of poetry he had been made to learn. He paced the floor and declared Aristophanes The Frogs in Greek, which seemed singularly appropriate, given the physiognomy of George.

  At night he tried to sleep. But he was becoming increasingly anxious about his safety. His deception had seemed so obvious and simple at first, but now he wondered why he had ever done it. Yet if he claimed his own identity now, they would likely not believe him.

  Obviously he was missed. Obviously Sabrina and Clare and Andrew would have instigated a search. And what good would that do, he would think desperately, lying awake in the dark, trying to breathe through his mouth, but unable to for very long, for it dried his throat out so and they didn’t give him enough water, damn their eyes.

  Every night, his thoughts eventually turned to Clare. Just as he had recalled all the poetry he knew, he would lie there sleepless and go over every memory he had of his wife, from the first time he had met her. He could see her shy face as she got down from the carriage that first brought her to Whitton. The hero-worship in her eyes when he rescued her from Lucy Kirkman. The warmth and affection she had always shown him. He even remembered, though he did not want to, the way her face had lit up with love and happiness when she looked up at Justin Rainsborough after taking her vows.

  And then there was the Clare who returned to London looking like a wraith. Why had he not seen the truth then? Why had he assumed, like everyone else, that she was just a long time recovering from her miscarriage? He claimed to love her, yet he had never once guessed the truth of her marriage.

  Then Clare at the inquest, when she told the truth and described the beating and the kicking and the choking. He had felt such a surge of protective love for her. But even then, he had not understood her. And, God forgive him, there was a small piece of him that was angry at her, that did think, “If she had married me, had ever looked at me like that, none of it would have happened.”

  Clare was right. He had never faced his deepest feelings about her marriage. He had held onto his image of himself as her protector, as her dear friend. A dear friend would surely want the woman he loved to be happy, even if with someone else. And he had, that was true enough. But he had also been furious with her for rejecting him, and had never been willing to admit it until now.

  He would push himself further to imagine the scene in the Rainsborough library. He would let Clare be there, let her be standing there, poker in hand, dress blood-soaked, terrified her husband was not really dead.

  He had to let himself see and love that Clare: he knew that now. He just wasn’t sure he could do it. And so when he couldn’t be there in that library any longer, he would go back to that first summer and start all over again. Somehow he had to love her, whole and entire. If—no— when he got out of this hellhole he wanted to be able to take her face gently between his hands and look deep into her eyes, seeing everything and loving everything she was.

  * * * *

  Clare had given up on the Bow Street Runner early in the game. It was clear that the proprietors of St. James Street would have wanted no connection made between them and the kidnappers, and therefore it was highly unlikely that they would be contacted at the gaming hell.

  She would never get into St. James Street herself, of course, or else she would have been there by the second day. No, she would have to get one of them to come to her. If they were all correct, Giles would not have given them his name, and Whitton would mean nothing to them.

  Accordingly, the day after she had purchased the pistol, the day before the trial, she sat down and carefully penned a note, which she handed to James Footman.

  “I want you to take this to Mr. Oldfield at 75 St. James Street. I have asked him to wait on me this afternoon, so wait for a reply.”

  James bowed and left. All the servants were of course aware of what had happened, what with Lord Whitton gone, Andrew More around all the time, and that trial to start on the morrow. He probably should not be letting his mistress do this, he thought, as he lingered on the steps and watched Andrew More coming up the street. He should give this note to Mr. More and let him deal with it. But his first loyalty was to Lady Whitton. Hiring a Runner had seemingly done no good. Maybe a lady’s tears would do more. And no harm could come to her in the house, after all. And so he merely bowed to Andrew as he passed him and hurried down the street.

  “Do you have any news, Andrew?” Clare asked when he was shown into the drawing room. She and Sabrina asked the same questions every day and received the same answer: “No, not yet.”

  “Is Sabrina in, Clare?”

  “She is, and I am worried about her.”

  Andrew looked immediately concerned as she had known he would.

  “I think she needs an outing this afternoon, but I could not persuade her to accompany me to the park. Perhaps you could, Andrew.”

  “I can try.”

  Clare rang for Henley. “Henley, can you send upstairs to Lady Sabrina and tell her Mr. More is here.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Tomorrow is the trial, Andrew. Do you really think they will release Giles?”

  “As soon as he tells them who he is. Which he will do tomorrow, I am sure.”

  Are you really, Andrew? wondered Clare. Why would the kidnappers want to place themselves in any danger? Once they found out they had seized a peer of the realm, wouldn’t they want to silence him, rather than have him go to the authorities?

  Andrew’s eyes went to the door when Sabrina entered. She did look wretched, thought Clare, as of course, they all were.

  “Sabrina, Andrew was just asking if we would like to go for a stroll in the park. I have some correspondence to catch up on, but perhaps you could keep him company?”

  “It is a lovely day, Sabrina. We would both be the better for a little exercise,” Andrew said encouragingly.

  “Oh, I am sure you have cooked up something between you, but yes, all right. I will go. Just let me get my pelisse.”

  “Thank you, Andrew,” said Clare.

  “No need, my dear. You know that it is my pleasure.”

  “And a bit painful, too, I think, my friend.”

  “A bit painful, yes,” he admitted.

  “Yet only because of your own stubborn sense of honor, I think?”


  “So she has told you?”

  “Not until I had guessed already.”

  “You must understand my reasons, Clare.”

  Clare smiled. “Oh, I do, Andrew. But honor has so little to do with love.”

  They heard Sabrina’s step in the hall, and Andrew bowed his good-bye.

  * * * *

  As they walked toward the park, Andrew stole a glance at his companion’s face. Sabrina, who had never in his memory looked anything but vibrant and alive was like a washed-out watercolor. Even Clare had more life in her face. “Have you been eating and sleeping, Brina?” he asked her gently.

  “Do I look that hagged, then, Andrew?" she answered, attempting a light, teasing tone.

  “Don’t try to evade me, my dear. I think this ordeal has been as hard on you as on Clare. Perhaps harder, because of your special bond with Giles.”

  “Please don’t be too kind, Andrew,” Sabrina responded in a voice choked with tears, “or I will be completely undone. And I must hold myself together for Clare’s sake.”

  “I think Clare is holding up very well, considering. In fact, this morning, she looked more energetic than she has in days. Almost as though she had something to accomplish.”

  “Perhaps it was only getting us out of the house together,” said Sabrina with a smile.

  They were crossing the thoroughfare at the entrance to the park, and Andrew had to concentrate on getting Sabrina safely through the traffic. It wasn’t until they were in the park and down one of the side paths that he responded to her.

  “This is the first time we have been alone since this summer,” he admitted.

  “Yes, you have kept yourself quite scarce,” she said with a tinge of bitterness in her voice. “Please don’t remind me of my foolishness.”

  “Do you know what Giles came to see me about that evening? He came to talk about Clare. It seems they have been having their problems.”