Here Comes a Candle

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  So he put out a tentative hand to play with the hair that grew in stiff golden curls about her temples, and wondered, as he felt her instant response to the touch, whether he had made a mistake in his handling of her. Her response, in Boston, to his first cautious approaches to love-making had been so instant and so violent that he had lost interest at once. She was his for the taking when he decided to have her. For the moment, he had convinced himself, it would be best to leave her on the alert for his least caress. Only—it did not seem to have worked out like, that. She had said nothing when he acquiesced, night after night, in the arrangements of small inns that found it easiest to sleep their male and female guests in separate dormitories. Only, each morning her temper had been worse than the last. And now they were near to Washington and the moment of crisis. And—he was not sure he could count on her.

  He looked around. It was almost dark now, and they were alone on the inn porch. His hand was still mechanically playing among the crisp curls at the back of her neck and he could feel her body respond to each tiny movement. Kate’s hair, he thought, with an irrelevance that disconcerted him, would not be tough like this; it would be soft, yielding to the touch; he would want to pull it, to make her cry for mercy...

  This was madness. He moved his hand down to a smooth, cool shoulder, and noticed belatedly that Arabella had changed into an unusually elegant gown. Oh well ... that settled it. “You’re very splendid tonight, my love.” He murmured it into her ear, and was aware, as he did so, of the heavy, cloying odor of the make-up she wore, and of the fine lines that showed beneath it. Kate would not smell like that, nor look so. Kate’s skin was firm and brown, ripened by the sun. Suddenly he was back in her father’s house: the body slumped once more across the table, the candles guttering, and Kate—Kate fighting for dear life in his arms,. biting, scratching, altogether delicious ... Oh, why in the name of God had she not been there next day when he woke resolved to marry her at once?

  Arabella was not fighting. She was leaning close against him now, the crisp curls tickling his chin. “I thought I’d never be alone with you again,” she said.

  “And I, too. These dreadful country inns. If you knew the nights I’ve lain awake, dreaming of you ... But it will be all over soon, my love, and we’ll be together for always.”

  “Oh, Charles, you really mean it. I’ve been a fool. I—I began to wonder whether you really cared; whether it was not all a mistake; all for nothing.”

  “Care!” This was danger indeed. “Arabella, my love, look at me.” With a hand that was not quite as gentle as he had intended, he forced her chin up so that he could gaze down into her eyes with what he hoped would pass for passion. “Do you not realize what anguish this journey has meant for me? What longing? What torments? But how should you know of the nights I’ve lain awake, tossing on my bed (and that was true enough, he thought, on these devilish American feather beds) thinking only of you,” he finished, pleased with himself.

  “Oh, Charles. Have I just been imagining things? Sometimes, I’ve seen you looking at Kate Croston—”

  “As if I could kill her,” he finished quickly. “I’m sure you have, love, and do you wonder? If we had not had her along as the unwelcome third, do you not think I would have found my way long since to your ‘ladies’ room’? You’d not have slept so sound these nights, I can tell you, if she’d not been there as a dragon in the next bed. But I have to think of your reputation, my queen; of the harm she could do you.” And that’s true enough, he thought, like it or not.

  “Oh, Charles—was that all?” She was soft as a cat against his hands.

  “Of course it was all! What in the world have you been, imagining, my foolish love?”

  “Oh: everything—nothing. Charles!”

  “Yes?” Her tone alarmed him, but he made his hands more urgent than ever. He was pushing the muslin now, down from her breast, and felt it stiffen to greet his hand.

  “You’re alone tonight, are you not? We’re the only people in this wretched inn. Silas sleeps above the horses—and the right place for him. I am chaperoned by Sarah and your Mrs. Croston. But—Charles—I cannot bear to see you suffer; to think of you sleepless for my sake. Charles! I will come to you!”

  His brain was racing, considering pros and cons. But there was only one thing to say. “My darling! But is it safe for you? I’d rather suffer anything than injure you.”

  She smiled up at him, pressing closer to his hand. “Dear, scrupulous Charles. But we are passing for a married couple, remember? If I need my husband’s comfort in the night, who is to say me nay?”

  He was in for it now. “My darling,” he said. “What can I say but, thank you?”

  She left him soon afterward, and he moved at once into the little room that served both as parlor and bar and ordered himself a stiff, dram of the fierce, sweet drink the Americans called whiskey. He flattered himself that he had always been a man for civilized drinking, for his bottle of wine over dinner and his port afterward, but this was an occasion that called for strong measures.

  If only he could stop thinking about Kate. Getting himself ready, at last, for bed, he could not shake his mind from the memory of the feel of her, furious, fighting, conquered at last. He must think about Arabella and all that money. He looked about the bleak men’s dormitory. All the beds were equally narrow and equally horrible with feathers. Not much chance of pleasure here, he told himself gloomily, and then put his mind forcibly to work on the money.

  Just the same, he was almost asleep when the door opened at last very softly. It had been a long day, and that American whiskey was stronger than he had thought. He pulled himself together to receive her. “Arabella! It’s too good to be true!” When the door shut gently behind her, it was quite dark in the room. He moved forward to where she had stood outlined against the light in the hall. “Where are you, my love?”

  “Here!” Suddenly she was pressed against him, the soft velvet of her negligee hardly masking her need of him. “Here I am, Charles.”

  His hands were gentle, too gentle, on her shoulders as he led her back to the narrow bed. Why would she not fight, like Kate?

  FOURTEEN

  Waking to find, with some relief, that he was alone, Manningham turned from the problem of Arabella to that of Kate. In the course of the journey, he had made, and dismissed, one plan after another for dealing with her when it became necessary. His idea when he first decided to bring her had been to leave her behind on the last morning of the journey. A dose of laudanum should ensure that she slept through their departure. And then, even if she should manage to follow them to Washington, she would never find the secluded house where they would be staying.

  But the alliance she had struck up with their driver, Silas, cast doubt on this plan. He was not at all sure that Silas would agree to start without her. Besides—he did not want to leave her behind. For one thing, there was the problem of Sarah, who would doubtless become a screaming maniac again if she were returned to her mother’s care. No—he must think of something else. Indeed, he had already made a plan, which impressed even himself by its audacity. His easy success with Arabella added to his confidence ... All he needed was a chance alone with Kate.

  This came that afternoon when they reached a steep hill. Sarah was fast asleep, spread out along the back seat of the coach. Arabella never walked if she could help it, but the horses were suffering under the August sun. Inevitably, he and Kate found themselves climbing the hill together. The very fact that she did not object to his company encouraged him, and he made a little business of being stiff from sitting so as to give the coach a start on them. “We’ll catch them up soon enough when I’ve got rid of this wretched cramp.” He made, he flattered himself, a very convincing job of his limp.

  “Yes.” Kate was doing her best to force the pace. “I don’t want to be too far behind in case Sarah wakes up.”

  “Alone with her mother! Poor little thing. If I’d only known, I would never have let myself be persuaded
to this mad venture.”

  “Oh?”

  Something a little daunting about her tone, but he went boldly on. “Yes—I had no idea. Well: you expect a mother to be able to manage her own child, don’t you? I hope to God we do find that Jonathan Penrose has reached Washington before us and is ready to come to terms. I can’t say I fancy the idea of crossing the Atlantic with that child.”

  “You’d never take her?”

  “Why not?” It seemed to him entirely reasonable. “What else could I do? I’m committed, aren’t I? If Jonathan Penrose doesn’t see reason here—why, he’ll just have to come to England, and pay up there. More trouble for all of us. But—that’s not what I wanted to talk about. Kate—I wanted to talk about us.”

  “Us?”

  “Yes. I was beginning to be afraid I would never get the chance. Kate; I’ve never forgiven myself. When I woke up, that day last year, and saw your poor father’s body, and remembered, I could have killed myself. You must understand, Kate. It was your fault, really: there’s something about you that rouses the devil in a man. That’s why I can’t forget you. Don’t want to. I looked everywhere for you that day. I’d have married you on the spot.”

  “Oh?” Stark unbelief in her tone. She looked ahead to where the coach had vanished around a turn of the road and quickened her pace.

  “Yes. Truly I would.” Did he dare to suggest that he had come to America merely to look for her? No, that kind of lie might work with Arabella, never with Kate. But there was no trace of you,” he went on. “I confess, in the end, I gave up. What else could I do? But I’ve never forgotten you. And now, finding you again like this: it must mean something.”

  “Mean something?”

  He was beginning to find her cool repeated questions irritating. “Yes—that I should have an opportunity—a chance to atone for what I did.”

  She stopped and faced him squarely in the dusty road. “Mr. Manningham, what in the world are you saying?”

  He was in for it now. “Why—that you’re the only woman for me. No, let me go on. This journey has been torment to me. To see the contrast between you and Arabella ... to remember what you and I have been to each other—”

  “Mr. Manningham,” she broke in. “You and I have never been anything to each other and never will. I find what you are saying infamous.”

  “No! Don’t say that. What could I do, when that poor woman set her cap at me? She’d have run away anyway, I can tell you that. At least she’s had me to protect her. I’ll do what I can for her, but of course she is deluding herself when she thinks we will be able to marry. No sense troubling her now with painful truths. Time enough, if we get to England, for her to discover that divorce is not so easy there as she has convinced herself. And then, don’t you see, that’s where we come in.”

  “We?”

  “Yes. You and I. You can’t wish to stay in this barbarous country. It’s impossible. This journey should have convinced you, if nothing else has. Filth, discomfort, insolence ... Oh, I know you’ve borne it like the angel you are, but you’re not one who won’t notice ... Besides, what is there here for you? A stranger alone in an enemy country. Don’t delude yourself Jonathan Penrose is going to have much to say to you, however we come out of this. You left without a word. What must he think? I don’t know, of course, what terms you and he were on, but he’s not exactly likely to welcome you back with open arms, is he? I know the child’s devoted to you, but—I ask you—a child’s devotion ... No, Kate, trust mine. I’ll see you through somehow. Did you know, I’m the heir to a title?”

  Her thoughts had been racing while he talked. Madness to let herself show how angry he had made her. This, might be her chance—hers and Sarah’s. For inevitably she too had been wondering what would happen at the end of the journey; whether, in fact, he would let her reach Washington. It did not matter whether he meant what he said: the important thing was to make him think she believed him. That way, she would seem no threat to him. She had been silent too long: he was looking at her doubtfully. She made herself slow her step just a little, lean toward him. “Yes—I know. But—why should I believe you?” Her tone begged to be persuaded.

  At last. He had really begun to think he had failed with her. “Why believe me? Look in your glass tonight, and then look at Arabella, at what this journey’s done to her. Oh, she’s a beauty of course, has been—and all a beauty’s foibles. And now she’s a woman for the lamplight, for the ballroom. But you, Kate, you’re all fire and air—you’re real, a creature of out-of-doors, someone a man could live for.” And the worst of it was, he thought, he meant it. Surely there must be some way of getting Jonathan’s money—and Kate. If he could, he told himself, he would. In the meantime, it was easy enough to put conviction into his voice. “You’re not a woman a man can forget. You’re in my blood, you haunt me ... have, ever since ...” Best stop there.

  She did almost believe him and was filled with fury and disgust and an astonishing wave of pity for Arabella. She bent to hide her face and tie her shoe. She had been awake last night when Arabella tiptoed from the room, awake, too, when she returned much later. And now, this. Oh, poor Arabella. But it was Sarah she must think of. She made her voice a masterpiece of near-conviction. “You think I should trust you?”

  He looked ahead. The coach was out of sight. Dared he risk it? He thought he must. There was, after all, only one sure way to convince a woman. “Of course you must.” His hand found hers to pull her toward him. “My first and only love.”

  “No!” It came out oddly violent. Then he saw that like him she was looking anxiously ahead. “Suppose she should come back?” she said.

  He let her go. “You’re a woman in a million. We’ll defer it, then, till happier times. In the meanwhile—you’ll bear with me, Kate, if I keep up the pretense. Anything for a quiet life.”

  “Of course.” This was going to be even more unpleasant than she had thought. “What will you tell her— about me? I imagine you had planned to leave me behind at the inn tonight.”

  “You’re no fool, are you? That’s just what I intended. Now—I’ll tell her that I’ve fooled you properly by threats against Sarah; you’ve promised not to make trouble. Right?”

  “Yes, of course.” Who was fooling whom? It was a risk she had to take. She managed a melting look. “I’ll do whatever you say.”

  “Admirable girl. Then—just go on behaving as you have done; treat me with that little scornful air of yours. I shall enjoy it—and wait for my reward. With money behind us, Kate, we’ll make a partnership to beat the world.”

  Jonathan’s money. Or Arabella’s, look at it how you would. And—how difficult it was not to grit her teeth when he called her Kate. But here, thank goodness, was a turn of the road and, predictably, the coach waiting for them beyond it. A pity, of course, that she had not had time to find out more about his plans, but—how much longer could she have successfully kept up the pretense?

  “What in the world happened to you?” Arabella leaned angrily out of the coach window.

  “Mr. Manningham had the cramp.” Kate let all her dislike into her voice as she climbed back into the seat by Sarah, who was beginning to stir restlessly in her sleep.

  They stopped early that night, since the distance to Washington was just too great to be completed in a day. “We’ll be there bright and early tomorrow,” said Manningham, leading the way into the little inn. But he emerged from the bar a few minutes later, looking badly shaken. “Arabella, my love, you had best speak to the man.” She had dropped into an upright chair on the inn porch, complaining, as usual, of the heat.

  “I? Why in the world?”

  “He seems to think me a spy! The English have landed at Benedict. The whole country’s in an uproar; no one knows where they are headed, and the landlord here seems to think I have something to do with the business.”

  “Well now,” the landlord himself emerged from the bar at this point, “I calculate I’ve got grounds enough. News of the redcoats land
ing this morning, and you turning up tonight, with your mealy-mouthed way of speech. What have you to say for yourself, ma’am?”

  “To say? I? What should I say?” But she made a practical suggestion just the same. “Ask our driver if we have not come straight from Boston. How can we have any connection with the English landing?” And then, on a note of panic that was more convincing than anything: “There’s no chance they’ll get here tonight?”

  The man laughed. “I guess they’ll have better things to do than trouble themselves with a one-horse place like this. Washington or Baltimore’s their goal, I reckon, or Commodore Barney’s fleet of gunboats up river. With eight thousand men—and every one of them Peninsula veterans—I reckon they can have the lot, if they want, before Jemmy Madison so much as gets around to saying boo to them. Hang on there, ma’am—” Arabella’s panic and her southern accent had had a mollifying effect, “and I’ll jist have a word with your driver.” Returning, he declared himself satisfied and shouted for his wife to “take the ladies upstairs, do.”

  They were the only guests in the inn that night, and Kate was glad of the company of the landlord and his family, who ate with them according to the gregarious American custom. Anything was preferable to being on their own.

  Arabella was full of anxious questions. Had there been any more news? Which way did the landlord think the English would turn? And what should they do? Turn back? Go on? Stay where they were?

  “We go on, of course,” Manningham interrupted heir at this point. “If they only landed this morning, it’s impossible—even if they are going there—that they should reach Washington for several days. If we stay here, we may fall into their hands; if we turn back, we may encounter them between this and Baltimore, which I think their most likely target. Think of the damage the privateers out of there have done to English shipping. Besides, if they do march on Washington, it stands to reason it will be hotly defended. Think of a march through this thick forest, in enemy country, with every man’s hand against you. And I have always understood”—this to the landlord—“that your people ware admirable marksmen. I wouldn’t want to be part of an army that had to march, blind, through country like this, with your riflemen everywhere among the trees.”