Sweet Awakening

by Marjorie Farrell

  “I know. It all seemed to start out very well, but something happened, and they are no longer ... there has been some sort of estrangement.”

  “Giles told me that Clare accused him of not being able to love the woman she has become. That he can’t let himself admit to the reality of the past two years. What do you think of that, Sabrina?”

  “I believe she may be right,” Sabrina answered thoughtfully. “We all had a certain picture of Clare in our minds, didn’t we? But you and I seem to have been able to adjust to the changes. You would think it would not be so. That Giles, who has loved her for years, would find it easier to appreciate the way she has changed,” Sabrina added wonderingly.

  “I think love blinds people in different ways,” said Andrew quietly.

  Sabrina hesitated. “Yes, it does,” she answered, wondering where their conversation was going.

  “For instance,” Andrew continued matter-of-factly, “I have always seen you as impetuous and headstrong.”

  “A madcap, hoydenish girl? Is that all you saw, Andrew?”

  “I think it was all I wanted to see. I loved you for it, of course.”

  Sabrina’s breath caught in her throat.

  “You were such a lovely counterpoint to Giles’s quiet kindness. But my love for that lively mischievous girl blinded me to the vulnerability of the woman you grew into.”

  They had come to a side path, and Andrew, linking his arm through Sabrina’s, led her down a few hundred yards.

  “Ah, yes, here it is,” he said as they came upon a small wrought-iron bench, and sat them down on it.

  He turned to Sabrina and continued: “Even when you asked me to marry you ...”

  “I never asked you to marry me, Andrew.”

  “Everything but, my dear,” he said, his eyes crinkling up as he gave her one of his most charming smiles. “I still saw myself as the only one in a vulnerable position. After all, I am a ...”

  “Younger son. I know,” she answered with mock exasperation.

  “Youngest. I’d loved you for years, you know, but had schooled myself very well to see the situation from one side only.”

  “I see.” Sabrina sat very still. “And have things changed, Andrew?” she asked, clasping her hands together to keep them from trembling.

  “I am not sure that anything has changed, Sabrina.”

  She thought she had never felt so empty.

  “But I see what there is very differently now. For instance, now I can see that you need me. I never saw that before.”

  Sabrina felt that she had been to hell and come back in one instant.

  “Perhaps I was never very good at showing you, Andrew.” Her whole frame was trembling now, a reaction to the strain of the past week and her sense that her whole life was about to change.

  “Giles and I talked about more than his marriage, Sabrina. He said he would welcome me as a brother-in-law. He said I was as stupid and proud as you had accused me of being.” As he was speaking, Andrew felt her shivering and without thinking, put his arm around her and drew her under his cloak.

  It took a few minutes, but slowly the warmth of his body penetrated to hers, and she relaxed against him.

  “I am hoping that your proposal is still open, Sabrina,” said Andrew softly, lifting her chin with his finger.

  “I did not propose to you, Andrew.”

  “Then I suppose I will have to propose to you,” he said with a grin. “Sabrina, will you be my wife?”

  “Do you love me, Andrew?”

  “Haven’t I been telling you that?”

  “Not in the last few minutes, Andrew.”

  “I love you, Sabrina Whitton.”

  “And I love you, Andrew More,” she whispered, lifting her face up to his and closing her eyes.

  He leaned down and kissed her gently. “I like the way you fit right into my body, my love. And it is good to know that I can offer you comfort.”

  “And I need your comfort so, Andrew.” Tears started to stream down her cheeks, and she brushed them away quickly, but not before he realized she was crying.

  “I am sure Giles is all right, Brina. He will be released as soon as the trial begins and they see they have the wrong man.”

  “Oh, Andrew, I am sorry to spoil this moment. It isn’t that I don’t want you to continue kissing me.”

  “There will be plenty of time for kisses and more, I promise you that, my dear. Now isn’t the time to celebrate anyway. But we could go back and tell Clare the news? If you are sure you can be satisfied with a disreputable barrister. You could have had anyone, even the viscount himself!”

  “I have always only wanted you, Andrew.” They started slowly back down the path, this time with Andrew’s arm around her waist. “And I suspect Miss Lucy Kirkman has her claws in your brother, whether he knows it or not.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Clare’s note had invited Mr. Oldfield to call upon Lady Whitton immediately to discuss a way of settling her brother’s gambling debts. The name Whitton could mean nothing to him, and she hoped that Lady Whitton’s forgetfulness about mentioning her “brother’s” name would be overlooked in the interest of obtaining money.

  She was lucky. Mr. Oldfield had been in. Mr. Oldfield was available to Lady Whitton. Mr. Oldfield showed up on the doorstep twenty minutes after she had sent her note, eager to discover just who Lady Whitton’s brother was: young Payne, who owed three hundred pounds, or Lieutenant Britton, who had dropped even more two nights ago.

  Mr. Oldfield’s appearance surprised Clare. She had expected the proprietor of a gaming hell to be vulgar and common. But Mr. Oldfield was a well-built, quietly dressed man of medium height who bowed politely to her and waited for her to speak.

  “Thank you so much for responding so quickly to my note, Mr. Oldfield.”

  “It is my pleasure, Lady Whitton.”

  Clare had her embroidery basket next to her on the sofa, and she ran her fingers over the silks as she spoke. “You see, I only found out about my brother’s troubles last night,” she added. “I have asked my husband to help my brother in the past, but a few weeks ago he declared it was the last time. My brother is young and foolish, though, and told me he went back one last time to the tables so he could repay my lord. Of course, he lost everything.”

  Mr. Oldfield looked appropriately sympathetic and clucked his tongue. “Young men are often like that, my lady. It is sad, but we can do little about it when they insist upon playing until they bleed themselves dry.”

  “Yet gaming is illegal, is it not?” Clare asked with assumed innocence.

  Oldfield cleared his throat. “There are laws on the books, yes. But the habit of play is too ingrained in so many, my lady.” He paused, and then said tactfully: “Now about the small matter of your brother’s debts. Just what is the young man’s name, and I can tell you exactly what he owes.”

  “My husband must never hear about this, Mr. Oldfield.” Clare pulled the basket on her lap and gripped it tightly in both hands. “That is why I asked you to come immediately, for he is away this afternoon.”

  “There would be no reason for me to tell Lord Whitton, my lady,” Oldfield reassured her. “Indeed, I do not believe I have ever even met Lord Whitton. I would guess, if he disapproves of your brother, he is not a gaming man himself.”

  “Yet I think some acquaintances of yours have met him.” Clare got up and carried her basket over to the small table directly behind him.

  “I do not think so, my lady,” said Oldfield, turning to address her and finding himself staring into the barrel of a cocked pistol.

  “Lady Whitton, I am sure I don’t know why you wish to threaten me?” he said after a moment of shocked silence.

  “Threaten you, Mr. Oldfield?”

  “Uh, yes, threaten me into releasing your brother from his debts. As a gentleman, your brother himself would not approve. Here. Let me take that,” he said, starting to reach out slowly, “before you harm yourself. An inexperienced hand s
hould never be holding a cocked firearm, my lady.”

  Clare took a step back. “Oh, but my hands are quite experienced.” Her hands were also shaking, and she drew them into her body to steady them. It was very hard to have them curled around a pistol again. In front of her was Mr. Oldfield, but he also seemed to be Justin. She took a deep breath and shook her head a little. “Do you know what my name was before I married Lord Whitton?”

  “No, my lady. But if you told me, I would know who your brother is and could arrange to settle his debts very easily. Or even cancel them altogether.”

  The man was very cool, thought Clare, and everything depended upon him believing her capable of killing him. Please God, she had been notorious enough.

  “I was married to Lord Justin Rainsborough. Until I killed him.”

  Oldfield’s eyes widened, and his face paled very satisfactorily.

  “You have heard of me, I see.”

  “Yes, my lady. Everyone in London heard of that, uh, incident, I believe.”

  “Then you know that I am not fond of bullies, Mr. Oldfield. And that having killed once, I am quite capable of doing so again.”

  Oldfield put his hands out, palms up, and said plaintively: “But how am I bullying you, Lady Rainsborough, I mean, Lady Whitton. You asked me here. I came. I have offered to release your brother from his debts. What more can I do for you?”

  Clare moved in quickly and had the pistol against his temple before he knew it.

  “You can take me to where you are holding Mr. Andrew More, Esquire.”

  Oldfield stared, and then became very still as he felt the pistol barrel brush his temple.

  “You are confusing me, my lady. I do not know a Mr. More.”

  “Oh, I think you do. Mr. More is to meet you in court tomorrow, and if he wins his case, you and your partners may very well spend some time in prison. And so you had him kidnapped.”

  “Even if that were true, my lady, which of course, it is not, what has this Andrew More to do with you? Unless he is your brother?”

  “I have no younger brother, Mr. Oldfield. And you have no Andrew More. Mr. More is in the park right now with my sister-in-law. Your knaves grabbed the wrong man. They took my husband, Lord Giles Whitton, and you are going to lead me to him.”

  Oldfield seemed to realize that further denial was foolish, for he only said quietly: “And what if I refuse, Lady Whitton?”

  “I will shoot you through the temple.”

  “But then you will not see your husband again.”

  “Oh, I believe I will. You see, then I will summon Mr. Carolus or Mr. Phillips or Mr. Bennett. I am sure one of you will be willing to take me there, especially if he sees what happened to his partners.”

  Clare could feel hysterical laughter rising at the thought of the bodies piling up in her drawing room, but willed it down. He must believe she was capable of this for her plan to work.

  Apparently, he did. “All right, Lady Whitton. I have no idea how this mistake happened, but I can take you to your husband. He is being held in a rookery in St. Giles, however, not a pleasant place for a lady.”

  “Don’t worry about my sensibilities, Mr. Oldfield. I assure you, I have become rather hardened over the past two years, due to my experiences.” Clare took a deep breath. “You are going to stand up, and I am going to hold my pistol close by your side. We will walk down to the street, where my butler will have summoned my chaise.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  They proceeded down the stairs just as she had said. “Is the chaise outside, Henley?" Clare asked when they reached the door.

  “Yes, my lady. Let me get your pelisse.”

  "No, thank you, Henley. I am in rather a hurry.”

  The butler wanted to protest, but it was hardly his place. The sun had disappeared behind clouds, and it had become a chilly afternoon. But he could not insist. He opened the door and watched his mistress and her visitor down the steps, and frowned as he saw the man climb into the chaise ahead of her and not even reach back to help her in. He would have to find out just where Lady Whitton summoned this Mr. Oldfield from.

  * * * *

  Clare sat facing Oldfield, the pistol pointing straight at his stomach. “I do not claim to be anything of a marksman, so I will not threaten to shoot you straight through the heart should you move,” she said with an ironic smile. “But I do not believe being gut shot is a pleasant fate.”

  “No, my lady, I would agree,” Oldfield responded dryly.

  They were silent for a while, and then he spoke again.

  “If I may ask, Lady Whitton, how did you figure out why your husband had disappeared?”

  “There was no other reason for him to have disappeared. When Andrew More remembered he had loaned Giles his greatcoat to keep off the rain and when a Runner found witnesses who had seen Giles bundled into a cab, we decided it had been you and your partners trying to insure the success of their case.”

  “But your husband could have just identified himself, and he would have been released.”

  “No doubt Giles realized whom you thought you had. He is very chivalrous, my husband, and a good friend of Andrew More’s.”

  “I see.” Oldfield was sitting there silently cursing his hired thugs. It was one thing to hold Andrew More, Esquire for a few days, quite another to hold the Viscount Whitton. He hoped they had treated their prisoner decently.

  The chaise was going slowly now as the coachman picked his way through the narrow streets of St. Giles. Oldfield had given him the address, but several times the driver had to stop and ask directions from some street urchin or beggar.

  “I haven’t been here in years myself,” said Oldfield, holding his handkerchief to his nose distastefully.

  “So these men do not know you?”

  “Oh, we didn’t hire them sight unseen, Lady Whitton. One of our blacklegs, Boniface, knows them and brought them to 75 St. James Street for instructions.”

  “And what were their instructions?” asked Clare, dreading the answer.

  “Only to hold Mr. More until the trial had begun and then release him that evening.”

  “So my husband would have been released by tomorrow night, then?”

  “Yes, you see all this effort is for no good reason, Lady Whitton.”

  “I don’t think so, Mr. Oldfield,” Clare answered thoughtfully. “Once you and your partners saw Andrew More in court, you may well have decided to dispose of your mysterious prisoner. You were very good at hiding your associations with these men. We have had a Runner watching you for these last few days, and he could pick up nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “Of course not. We were very careful. Only two of us have even met these men, Lady Whitton. You are very lucky that I happen to be one of them.” Oldfield paused. “As for your husband, I will not lie to you: we may well have ordered him disposed of, especially since we didn’t know who he was. And it might have happened even without our orders, once the men found out they had the wrong man.”

  Clare shuddered.

  “So perhaps, Lord Whitton should be grateful after all that he wed a murderess.”

  “Indeed, Mr. Oldfield, I think he should!” Clare replied boldly, hoping that her brave words would convince herself as well as him that she was able to go through with this.

  The chaise finally stopped at the corner of what looked like an alley but was actually a narrow street. The coachman came to the door and announced that he could not get the chaise any farther if this was indeed the place.

  “You said number three?” Clare asked.

  “Yes, Lady Whitton.”

  “Robert, I am going to remain in the chaise with Mr. Oldfield. You will go to the door of number three and inform—?” she glanced over to Oldfield.

  “George and Henry.”

  “... That Mr. Oldfield is here to see them regarding their prisoner. Bring them here to us.”

  “Yes, my lady.” Robert knew that his mistress had embarked on something dangerous but
important to Lord Whitton’s release, and so he overcame his own fear and distaste, and stepped down the street.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Giles had stopped eating after his second day in the cellar. He had tried, but the smells from the building, the street, and his own waste had made it impossible for him to keep food down. He had developed a great thirst, however, and asked for more water, but Toad only laughed and said, “We don’t want yer chamber pot overflowing, do we, gov,” and so he still received only a pitcher a day. He arranged his days around what he thought were mealtimes, and made drinking his cup of water as much of a ritual as eating a full meal, forcing himself to sit and sip slowly rather than gulp it down as he had the first day.

  He kept to his regimen of exercise also, pacing to the rhythm of Greek and Urdu poetry. Occasionally, to keep up his spirits, he declaimed the verses loudly and dramatically, trying to imagine himself in an amphitheater.

  The evenings were the worst of all, and after his “supper” it had been dark already for hours. He would fall asleep and men awaken in what he imagined was the middle of the night. He would lie there for hours, or so it seemed, unable to summon poetry or anything else to comfort him. He would reassure himself that this ordeal was almost over. He wasn’t a prisoner of war, after all, condemned to years of this, nor was he a criminal condemned to a lifetime of more subtle torture. Andrew will be made to pay for this, he would say to himself, trying for humor.

  They were not very pleasant, his midnight thoughts, and by the fourth day, he was not able to confine them to the dead of night. By the fourth day, he was nearly out of his mind with hunger, thirst, and the stench. He walked a little in the morning, but was too weak to get off his pallet in the afternoon. He was lying there, drifting in and out of consciousness when he felt someone shake his shoulder.

  “ ‘E’s not dead, is ‘e?”

  “Don’t be a fool, George. Of course not. Get up, Mr. More.”

  Giles sat up slowly. Sitting up made him dizzy and nauseous, and he sank his head into his hands to keep the room from spinning around him.