Secret Nights

by Anita Mills

  "Thank you."

  Aided by Clark's valet, Patrick washed up outside the kitchen, then joined the old man inside. While he waited for Elise and Molly in the front parlor, he sipped brandy and listened to the man tell of the terror they'd all felt when the "mass of lowest humanity" had descended on the street.

  " 'Twas terrible, sir—utterly terrible," he said, shaking his head. "Poor Margaret was already gone to bed with the headache, and for all we knew of it, they was going to get this place also. Had to get her up, then we all pushed the furniture against the doors. Why, 'tis a wonder we did not lose this house."

  "Hopefully, the worst is over until the trial."

  "Finer man than Bat Rand don't live, I can tell you," Clark pronounced definitely. "This whole thing is a travesty, it is."

  "How well do you know him?" Patrick asked politely.

  "Lived beside him for years, twenty-three to be precise. Aye, I remember when the girl was born. Sad business there, too, for Emmaline nearly died—almost bled to death, you know."

  "Did he drink quite a lot?"

  "No more than most of us. Oh, he tippled a bit much sometimes, I suppose, and the watch was having to bring him home a time or so."

  "Did he tell you about being robbed?"

  "Aye, he did. Said I ought to be careful myself, for he was just walking down the street when the rowdies tolled him." Clark poured another glass of brandy. "I expect it will be a while," he told Patrick, "for Margaret ain't letting Ellie out ere she is cleaned up a bit."

  "No, I suppose not."

  "Guess you are wondering why I ain't offering to keep the gel, ain't you? Thing is, we ain't wanting any more trouble, don't you see? Margaret's heart's bad, and with them breaking windows and shouting at Rand's house during the night, I was afraid they'd mistake my place for his." Clark looked into his glass for a moment, then drank deeply. Smacking his lips, he turned his attention back to Patrick. "Besides, what if they was to come back?"

  "Well, now that Rand's house is burned down, I cannot think that likely," Patrick murmured dryly.

  "Eh? Oh, no—and with the place closed down and the girl gone, they ain't got no reason to, as I'm seeing it."

  “Did Mr. Rand say where it was that he was robbed?" Patrick asked casually.

  “That's the devil of it, sir—'twas near Carleton House once, he said. And if they are so bold as to roll a man there, there ain't a safe place left in London after dark."

  "Carleton House?" Aye. Odd place, ain't it? Guess they ain't got all the riffraff as was in St. James out yet, eh?"

  "Apparently not."

  “Rand was a good man," Clark went on expansively. I ain't supposed to tell it, but the war's over now, so who's to care?"

  “Tell what?"

  "Where I got m'brandy—aye, and m'wine also. And what with the lace trade shut down, he was able to get Margaret some of that also."

  “Rand was a smuggler?"

  "Lud, no! But he knew some of 'em, and he wasn't above providing his friends with what was wanted."

  "I see."

  "No, you don't," the old man declared bluntly. "Bat Rand drove a hard bargain with the bricks, but he wasn't above taking care of things for his friends and his family. Why, Margaret was able to trim her petticoats when there was others as couldn't."

  "How well does Mrs. Clark know Mrs. Rand?"

  "Emmaline?" He appeared to consider that, then shook his head. "She wasn't right after the girl was born."

  "She suffered a brain affliction?"

  "No, but she wasn't like she was. Oh, she was pleasant enough, I guess, but she wasn't a goer like before. And when Miss Rand was old enough, Bat liked to take her with him to the Lord Mayor's dinners and things like that when Emmaline wasn't wanting to go." Clark drank his brandy, then licked his lips. "Good stuff, ain't it? Yes, sir, but Bat knew how to get things. The French devil never stopped him from getting what he wanted."

  "Oh?"

  "Aye, and it wasn't just things like brandy neither. When he got a boat in from China—or was it India? Well, it don't signify which, anyways, does it? Point is, Margaret's a hand at the gardening—does some of it herself even."

  "He got her something for her garden?"

  "Aye, he was into the plants himself, but what Brit ain't? But to make the long and short of it, he liked to give her stuff to try out. A couple of years back, he gave her yellow jessamine—she liked that, 'cause the blooms was showy."

  "I see."

  "Gave her oleander once, but it didn't prosper. If it was warm, I'd take you out to Margaret's garden, but it don't show well this time of year."

  "I'm afraid I am that rare Englishman who cannot tell one flower from another," Patrick admitted. "Tell me—did you ever know of Mr. Rand's keeping a mistress?"

  "Why he was devoted to 'em—Emmaline and the girl, I mean. Oh, he might've drank a bit, and he might've been hard on them as made bricks for him, but he wasn't what they are saying."

  Patrick leaned forward to set his empty glass on the tray. "Tell me, Mr. Clark—would you be willing to testify as to his character?"

  "In court? And what if those folks was to come back for me? No, sir, I would not."

  “'He may hang."

  "Aye, and I'd be sorry for it, but what can I do? I got a sugar business to look after—got ships coming in horn the West Indies every month."

  "Would you count Mr. Rand a herbalist?" Patrick asked suddenly.

  "Well, he was always growing things."

  "Did he ever use opium?"

  "What? Of course he did not! Wouldn't even touch snuff!"

  "Did he ever buy a quantity of sugar from you?"

  "Well, of course he did! Gave him a good price, and he took it."

  "More than a household would use, would you say?"

  "Well, he's got—or rather, he had—a big house, sir."

  "Yes, of course."

  "What are you going to do with the girl?" Clark liked him.

  “I had thought to send her into the country."

  "You won't get her to leave him. Not that I approved it, but he treated her like a son, sir—a son rather than a daughter. Broke his heart when she was wanting to wed Sam Rose's boy."

  "So I have heard."

  The old man nodded. "He was wanting for something between her and m'son—and I cannot say I was diverse to it. But you know the saw, sir—what was it the Romans said? 'Familiarity breeds contempt,' eh? Well, it did. My Philip would have offered for her, but she let him know she wasn't having him."

  "Oh."

  "Ain't no, 'oh' to it. She met the Rose fellow, and there wasn't no one else. She and Bat argued over it—why, that summer, we could hear 'em over here. Finally, there wasn't anything Bat could do, so he agreed to it, but he wasn't happy." Clark reached for the brandy again. "But they was all right after the funeral, and he felt terrible for her. Terrible."

  "I should think so."

  "Just as well as she didn't take Philip now, ain't it? I wouldn't have wanted this business visiting my doorstep, you know."

  "I suppose not."

  "Wonder where they are at. Girl could've had a full bath by now, don't you think? You got a wife, sir?" Clark asked, changing the subject once again.

  "No."

  "Fortunate fellow, then. That's the worst thing about the females, Hamilton—they are always keeping a man waiting. More brandy, eh?"

  As Patrick was about to decline, he could hear voices coming down from upstairs, and he felt relief. "Yes, well, it would seem Mrs. Clark found something for her." Rising, he went to peer out the door in time to see Elise come down.

  "Frank!" Clark barked out. "Tell 'em to put Rand's team to his carriage! Hamilton, you was wanting the big carriage rather than something else, wasn't you? I mean, it ain't phaeton weather if you got any ways to go."

  "The carriage."

  The woman's dress hung on Elise, and with a remaining soot smudge she'd missed on her face, the rich Miss Rand looked the complete waif. But despite everyt
hing, she managed a crooked smile.

  "If you laugh at me, Hamilton, I shall never forgive you," she said, her voice still low and raspy.

  "Here now," Clark chided, "is that any way to speak to a man as went into a burning house for you?"

  She sobered on the instant "No, of course it is not."

  Behind her, Molly carried an old portmanteau.

  "Right generous the missus was," she said. "Got dresses fer both of us."

  "Oh—Frank!" Clark shouted again. "Fetch a cloak for Hamilton!" Turning back to Patrick, he said, "Now you ain't going to refuse it, sir—and if I was wanting it back someday, I daresay I know where I can find it. Just glad to help a fellow Tory, that's all."

  In the foyer, Margaret Clark embraced Elise, then kissed her on the cheek. "Do let us know how you fare, my love," she said.

  "Now where was that you was taking her?" her husband wanted to know.

  "The country."

  "Where in the country?"

  "South," Patrick answered vaguely. Taking the cloak that one of the Clark maids carried, he draped it over Elise, swamping her in it. "You may rest easy that she will be safe, sir."

  "But that don't—"

  "Good night—and thank you for everything," Elise told them.

  Patrick held the door, waiting for her and Molly to go out, then he inclined his head politely. "Perhaps one day I shall see you in court, Mr. Clark," he murmured.

  "What? What's this, sir?" the old man called after him. "No, afore God, I hope not!"

  "What was that all about?" Elise asked curiously.

  "Nothing of import." Taking her arm, he walked her toward the Rand carriage house, which was still standing.

  A new, quiet crowd had gathered to watch the last of the fire, while Bow Street Runners stood guard to keep out any looters. The brick facade was intact, a silent, smoldering skeleton, gutted inside. As they walked past it, Patrick could feel her shiver, and thinking she meant to cry again, he put his arm around her.

  "Ye fergot Button!" Lizzie called out. But as she said it, she rubbed her dirty face against the animal's nose.

  "Don't you want to come with your mistress?" Patrick asked the girl gently.

  "Oh, aye—aye, sir! Why, I can keep Button from messin', I can."

  "If ye can, 'tis a miracle," Molly muttered.

  "Where are the driver and coachman?"

  "Here, sor! All of us is still here," a fellow responded.

  "I need a driver and two coacheys. The rest can stay to guard what's left."

  "Aye, sor—that'd be me and Will as'd come wi'ye, I s'pose." The fellow spat on the ground, then went inside.

  "I don't know how I shall ever tell Papa," Elise said tiredly. "It meant so much to him—the house— Mama—everything. He was born poor, and he wanted everyone to see what he'd gotten."

  "He'll come about." Leaving her briefly, Patrick went in to confer with the driver, giving him directions, then came back. "Well, we are ready, unless you can think of anything else you need."

  "No. I can buy everything we need tomorrow."

  The big, impressive carriage, with its glossy black body and lacquered maroon doors, rolled out, pulled by a team of four showy bays. As the coachman stood back, the driver climbed up onto the box. One of the others hastened to throw the worn portmanteau into the boot.

  Patrick tossed the young girl up, then Molly gave her the dog before following her inside. After giving Elise a hand, he swung up into the seat beside her. It wasn't until the carriage passed several streets that the tweeny asked, "Where are we going?"

  "Barfreston."

  "Where's that?"

  "Kent—between Canterbury and Dover."

  Elise's chest and throat still felt raw inside, and her eyes were burning from the awful heat of the fire. She closed them and tried not to think, but it was impossible. Her father was in prison awaiting trial for murder, her mother had fled, and now she had no house to live in. It was as though she were caught in an endless nightmare. She wanted to cry, but there were no more tears.

  It seemed she was deserting Bat Rand also, but she was beyond fighting it tonight. Tomorrow, she would be able to think more clearly, to collect herself and make arrangements for everything. But not now.

  She felt Patrick Hamilton's arm close about her shoulder, and it no longer mattered whether he was promised to Jane Barclay or not. Tonight she merely wanted him to hold her. As he pulled her nearer, easing her beneath his borrowed cloak, she didn't even care what Molly or Lizzie thought. She turned into his body and laid her head against his chest, smelling the smoke on his clothes, hearing the steady, reassuring beat of his heart beneath his shirt.

  He sat there, stroking her hair with his fingertips, wishing he had it in his power to shield her from die world that wasn't yet finished crashing down on her shoulders. For a long time he stared into the darkness, lost in thought. When the last street lamp was passed, when there was no sound beyond the rumble of wheels on macadamized road, he looked down to discover she slept. And he was nearly overwhelmed by the tenderness he felt for her.

  With Bat Rand's coach and four, it ought to have been an easy journey to Barfreston, but somewhere past Canterbury, the driver became utterly lost. After winding through the rural countryside, over seemingly endless country lanes, at dawn he finally reined in and ordered the coachey to inform Hamilton the village was nowhere to be found.

  Molly roused. "We ain't never getting ter it, are we?" she mumbled drowsily.

  Patrick eased his arm from beneath Elise, shifting her sleeping form onto the seat, then jumped down for a look, finding nothing familiar.

  "What is the last village we came through?" he asked finally.

  "I dunno—'twas too dark ter tell, but the inn was the Cock 'n' Candle." Brightening, the coachman dared to ask Patrick, "How far d'ye think we got ter go?"

  "I have no idea. Perhaps we should go back to the inn and ask for directions."

  "Aye."

  As Patrick swung back up into his seat, Elise sat up and yawned. "Are we arrived?"

  "No."

  "Oh." She rubbed her cramped shoulder, trying to ease her arm. "Where are we?"

  "I don't know, but if you wish, we can take rooms at the Cock 'n' Candle back up the road a bit."

  "Not unless you want to." She looked at the ill-fitting wrinkled gown. "I cannot think you would care to be seen with me."

  “I’ll engage a private parlor, and we can have breakfast at least. Then if you are too tired to travel farther, we'll stay there."

  As the coach turned around in the narrow road, she felt rather self-conscious. But when he turned to her again, he smiled.

  "Don't worry—I won't let any more harm come to you."

  "Papa will wonder what has happened when I don't visit him today."

  "He'll be all right. I mean to send word to him that it isn't safe for you in London."

  "I don't want to worry him."

  "You can write a letter, and I'll see it sent. He wouldn't wish you to risk facing that mob again."

  "I suppose you are right" She leaned back and swallowed, closing her eyes for a moment. "But there is so much to tend to—the house, the servants, Papa— just everything."

  "You need a repairing lease, Ellie."

  "But I should not have left London," she said tiredly.

  "A hotel wasn't safe, and I couldn't take you home with me," he reminded her.

  "No, I daresay Dunster would not have liked that."

  "I was thinking of you rather than me."

  "Aren't you supposed to be going to Scotland? I thought you said—"

  "I did, but just now I am not precisely certain of a welcome," he admitted wryly.

  "Because of Papa."

  "No," he lied.

  "You cannot afford for him to be angry, Hamilton. You need his support with the Tories—you cannot stand without him, can you?"

  "No. But I am so tired just now that I don't even know what I want anymore."

  "You ought
to have remained in London."

  "No." He forced a smile. "No, I am in need of a repairing lease also. I need somewhere to think. Go on back to sleep," he advised her. "I'll waken you when we are there." As she turned her head against the seat, he slid over and gave her his shoulder again. "Here—you'll break your neck that way."

  Savoring the strength of his arm, the solidness of his shoulder, she closed her eyes once more. "You know, Hamilton, you have been a surprise to me," she murmured dreamily.

  "Patrick," he reminded her. He waited until he thought she slept again, then he said softly, "And 'tis a bonny lass ye are, Ellie Rand. I canna ever remember another like ye."

  She slid her arm around his waist and snuggled closer. "I like it when you speak like that," she whispered huskily. "You have a beautiful accent."

  "And to think I have spent half a life ridding myself of it," he murmured.

  "If I were Lady Jane, I should wish to hear it a great deal more."

  "Jane wouldn't."

  "Well, she ought to take you as you are, if you want my opinion, Hamilton." "Patrick," he said again.

  But as he looked out on the rose-cast hills, he knew he was going to have to face Dunster. As soon as he could bear to leave her, he would have to go to Scotland.

  After having eaten at the inn, then retracing their route back to Woolage Green, the driver found the right road. By the time the carriage reached Barfreston, it was nearly noon, and the village was bathed in autumn sunlight.

  Now seated more properly beside Hamilton, Elise leaned to look out the window as they came upon the stone church. Impulsively, she turned to him.

  "How pretty it is," she said. "Can we not stop and go inside?"

  "If you wish, but it is only a short walk from my house."

  "Beggin' yer pardon, miss, but I'd as soon get where I'm goin'," Molly protested. "And the dog ain't been out since we was at the Cock, ye know."

  "Oh, she ain't mindin' it," Lizzie told her, stroking Button's back. "Right good her's been, if ye was ter ask me."

  "Yes, she has. I suppose we ought to get her settled, then I can walk back," Elise conceded.

  "The whole village is pretty and peaceful," Patrick observed. "I liked it here even before I saw the house."

  "How did you come to choose it?" Then, realizing she shouldn't be prying, Elise hastily added, "I'm sorry—that really isn't my concern at all."