Secret Nights

by Anita Mills

  "Actually, I bought the manor when I decided to marry. It seemed like a good place to rear children."

  "Oh. Yes, of course."

  "But somehow I cannot quite imagine Jane here," he admitted wryly.

  "Then she has not seen it."

  "Jane rather fancies grander places, I'm afraid."

  As they turned up the narrow lane leading to the white stone house, Elise could not help admiring it. "Oh, how lovely—why, it is like a picture, isn't it? Patrick, she will be completely taken with it once she comes here."

  He sat up abruptly. "But even though I was the first to bring her up, I don't want to think about her or Dunster today. Suffice it to say they are in Scotland, and I am here."

  But she longed to ask just how that came to happen. "Well, as soon as I write to Papa, I think I shall go back to the church," she said instead.

  "You won't be disappointed, I promise you. And," he added, smiling. "I don't want to speak of Rand either. Not today."

  It wasn't that the house itself was at all prepossessing, she decided, looking at it again. It was rather its setting, the gentle hills, the expanse of lawn, the small bridge over a brook, and the row of trees that lined the lane. It looked not like a grand country mansion, but rather like a home.

  "It used to belong to Farmington," Patrick told her, "and although there are but twenty-seven rooms, he modernized it considerably, adding a number of water closets." When she said nothing, he admitted, "It cannot be compared to Rand House."

  "No," she said simply, "but it is still standing. And growing up in my home was rather daunting, to say the least, for Papa used it to flaunt his success before the world. Whatever anyone else had, he required two to show he could afford it."

  "And yet you loved the house."

  She considered for a moment, then allowed slowly, "Well, I don't think it was because it was big, or because it displayed Papa's wealth so much. I think it was because Papa and Mama loved me there." Her eyes met his. "And you? Surely you liked the home you grew up in?"

  "No. My house was a stark, ugly place in sad need of repair, I'm afraid, and I cannot say I was particularly happy there."

  "I'm sorry."

  "It wasn't your fault, was it?" he countered.

  Feeling rebuked, she lapsed into silence. He stared out his window, then said finally, "It is my turn to be sorry, I'm afraid. I had no right to rip up at you for having a kind heart, Ellie."

  "No, you didn't."

  A rabbit ran across the yard, and Lizzie leaned forward to look, exclaiming, "Gor! They got real creatures—look at that, Molly!"

  "Well, it ain't Lunnon," the older girl retorted. "A body'd think you hadn't been anywheres."

  "I ain't," Lizzie admitted candidly. She held Button up to the window. "See that, eh? Ye'll have things ter chase, won't ye?"

  "That has got to be the best dog I have ever seen," Elise decided. "There's been scarce a yip out of her the whole way. She does little besides eat and sleep."

  "And piddle," Molly added dryly. "But fer what she is, she ain't no worse'n some and probably better than most."

  The carriage stopped, and the coachman jumped down to open the door. Button, taking the opportunity, leapt out of the tweeny's lap onto the ground and ran across the grass, disappearing around the corner of the house.

  "As you were saying, Ellie?"

  "Well, I daresay she is rested from sleeping most of the way from London."

  Patrick climbed down, then reached up for her. When she leaned out, his hands grasped her waist, lifting her to the ground, and as her eyes met his, there was no mistaking the warmth in them. For an instant, she felt her breath catch, then she was standing on the ground.

  When he turned back, the two maids were already down and Lizzie was running indecorously after the little dog. Molly watched, her hands on her hips. Turning back to Elise, she sighed.

  "Well, ye might as well give the creature to her, for 'tis all she's caring about." Then, realizing she sounded rather cross, she nodded. "Aye, but she ain't got much, anyways, ye know, fer her mum died and her papa put her in the poorhouse."

  "Rand got her out of the poorhouse?" Patrick asked, surprised.

  "No, I did." Twitching the skirt of the too-large gown into place, Elise smoothed it over her hips. "Papa let her stay because she dropped a curtsy every time he passed her, and he found that quite flattering."

  "And no doubt you had something to do with that also?"

  "Well, I allowed as it wouldn't hurt in the least," she answered, smiling. "Men are easily swayed when being toadeaten."

  "What a baggage you are, my dear."

  "Fiddle. I didn't want him to turn her out, that was all."

  A stout woman came out, still wiping her hands on a starched apron. "Mr. Hamilton! Why, we wasn't expecting ye!"

  "There wasn't time to write, I'm afraid," he said apologetically.

  "Well, the place is in Holland covers, but I'll have 'em off in a trice." She stopped when she noted Elise. "Never say ye got yerself a missus, sir!"

  "No. Miss Rand is merely rusticating for a while." Seeing that the woman was appraising Elise skeptically, he hastened to add, "And she has brought her maids with her."

  "Maids, eh?"

  "Her father is a client of mine. Miss Rand, Mrs. Pate—Mrs. Pate, Miss Rand. Miss Rand's father is in the brick business."

  "Rand? Of the London brickworks?" the housekeeper asked, clearly impressed.

  "Actually, the bricks are made at Islington," Elise murmured.

  "Well, well—who'd a thought it?" The housekeeper's gaze dropped to the ill-fitting dress. "But how'd—?"

  "Miss Rand's house burned, and nothing could be saved," Patrick explained.

  "Oh, ye poor thing! Well, I got a woman as can take that up a mite fer ye—aye, and she's quick with the needle, if ye was to want her to make something up fer ye. A guinea ter the gown for the service."

  "Thank you. I shall no doubt have need of her."

  "Aye, and if ye was ter want, ye could ask the vicar's wife about Mrs. Thorne, and she'd tell ye as how she can copy nigh ter anything fer ye."

  "I shall be happy to accept your word, Mrs. Pate," Elise assured her. "In fact, if you will give me her direction, I might call upon her today."

  "No, ye won't, fer I'll have her come up ter ye. It ain't fitting fer ye to go to her when ye are a guest in this house. If ye want, I can send ter her now."

  "Just now I should like a bath."

  "Aye." Turning back to the door, the woman ordered, "Get yer body out here, Jack, and see ter the baggage. Aye, and tell Mr. Pate as 'tis Mr. Hamilton as has come." Returning her attention to Patrick, she explained, "What with the house in Hollands, there ain't but me'n Pate, two maids, the cook, and a footman inside, and the gardener and an ostler without. But if ye was wantin'—"

  "No, it will be fine."

  "And how long will ye be staying?"

  "I don't know—possibly a fortnight or more," he answered evasively. "It depends on rather a lot of things."

  "Aye, ye always got business, don't ye?" "Yes."

  As Lizzie came triumphantly around the corner of the house with Button securely in her arms, Mrs. Pate asked, "And now who would that be?"

  "An orphaned housemaid," Patrick answered. "And the older girl is Molly, Miss Rand's maid."

  But the housekeeper's eyes were on the little dog. "Well now, I ain't one ter like creatures in the house."

  As the girl's face fell, Patrick intervened. "Actually, I said she could keep it inside."

  "Oh." She looked to the girl. "Well, if it messes, 'tis yours to clean up." Then to the others, "Come on into the house, and I'll show you about—except Mr. Hamilton, of course, for he owns the place, though he don't get here often."

  Having scrubbed herself from crown to foot to remove the last vestiges of soot and smoke, Elise dressed and came down the stairs feeling considerably better. In the hall, Patrick was pensively studying a picture that hung over a small table.


  As she cleared the last step, he turned around. "Well, you look much more the thing."

  "I think I am."

  She eyed him self-consciously, seeing that he'd not only bathed, but was freshly shaven, and in his snowy shirt, buff pantaloons, and black knee boots, he was even more handsome. And when he smiled at her, there was no mistaking the warmth in his beautiful hazel eyes. To be fair to the females around him, no man ought to have eyes like that.

  "The dress fits better—never say you have already managed to stich a bit on it?"

  "No. What you see, Hamilton, is merely the result of some judiciously placed pins." Heedless of propriety, she lifted the hem of the skirt, showing him. "Actually, if I were to pass a magnet, I should be in trouble." Her expression clouded briefly. "I wrote Papa."

  "Good. Give it to Mrs. Pate, and I'll see she posts it."

  She caught sight of the picture, and for a moment she looked at it, studying the small, rather delapidated house amid an altogether bleak and forbidding setting.

  "Where is that?"

  "Scotland in the winter—my childhood home, to be precise. My brother Jamie sketched it from memory somewhere in Portugal."

  "Oh."

  "Not very impressive, is it?"

  "Well, I should not say that precisely."

  "My parents spent what little money they had preserving the notion that they were relation to the Duke of Hamilton, which was distant enough to be laughable. My brothers and I scarce had shirts whole enough to cover our backs, but my mother wore silk dresses because she was wed to a Hamilton." He looked at the picture again. "As though everyone could not see the house and know we did not prosper," he remembered bitterly.

  "And your father?" she asked quietly.

  "My father was a hard man, given to violence toward those smaller than himself, but he too wanted to believe that the Hamilton name somehow made him better than his neighbors. He made great show of sending his sons off to Edinburgh to the university, until he got to me. I was the rebel he could not understand, I'm afraid."

  "Oh?"

  "I told him I'd die before I'd go there. I wanted to get as far away as possible."

  "So you went to Oxford."

  "Cambridge. Oxford was the seat of all things Tory, and my father fancied himself a Whig. But he never believed in any of the causes. I think," he mused, "it was that he was not prosperous enough for the Tories to claim him, and he knew it."

  "At least he sent you to school."

  "No. He managed to convince the duke that if I did not go to Cambridge, I should be the first Hamilton to trod the boards and blemish the family name."

  "I see. And what happened to your brothers?"

  "Kit has a church living in Cambria, David is a surgeon in Edinburgh, and Jamie died in the war."

  "I'm sorry," she said quietly. "Losing him must have been terrible for your parents. And you also, of course."

  "My father and mother were buried at Bothwellhaugh before it happened." "How awful for you."

  "I suppose I ought to have mourned them, but at the time I felt nothing beyond what they'd done to me. Had Papa died earlier, I would have chosen the other path."

  "And yet you have prospered in your profession," she reminded him gently. "You have prospered, Patrick."

  "At first I only wanted to repay the Duke of Hamilton—I didn't want to hang on his sleeve by the tenuous thread of diluted blood. Then I decided if I couldn't be a Kemble upon the stage, I would have to be the best barrister money could buy. I wanted to be rich enough to have what I wanted, only to discover my wants were more modest than anticipated. I don't suppose that makes much sense to you, does it?" he asked ruefully.

  "Having been born rich, I daresay you will think it foolish to say it, but money never meant much to me. There are only so many gowns and so many jewels that one female can wear, Hamilton, and when I look about and see the pain and suffering that abound, I feel rather guilty for what I have been given."

  "When we were young, we dreamed of what we should have, swearing we should never be improvident like Papa."

  "And your other brothers—do you see them often?"

  "Almost never. Kit is married to a Friday-face who views me with great suspicion—and as he is under her thumb, I don't relish being in his company either."

  "And the doctor?"

  "David?" He appeared to consider, then sighed. "David is too much like our mother. He earns a good living, and yet he cannot keep any of it. The only times I hear from him are near quarter day when he must settle with the tradesmen."

  "How very sad."

  "I don't know—the only one I have missed is Jamie. We wrote to each other rather often, and when his captain went through his belongings after he died, he found the picture and a note that said, 'Should I perish, I would wish that you give this to my brother Patrick, that he may see how far he has risen above it.' " He stared absently, as though he could see something within the space before him, then he settled his shoulders. "We were the younger two." Abruptly his manner changed, and he smiled. "Do you still wish to see the church?"

  "Yes."

  "Now?"

  "Yes. I thought I should walk there and give thanks for my life. When the curtains caught from a torch thrown inside, it was like tinder. I have to think it divine intervention that everyone got out."

  "But you went back in."

  "Because of Lizzie. She was too young to die."

  "You are a wonder to me, Ellie," he said softly.

  "Stuff," she answered, coloring self-consciously. Taking her borrowed cloak from the hall tree, she wrapped it around her. "Being as you are a deist, I don't suppose you are wishful of coming with me, are you?"

  "I'm not certain I should count myself as a deist, Ellie." He waited until she looked up at him. "I may believe in Divine Providence yet" "Oh?"

  Instead of explaining, he reached for his own cloak and slung it carelessly over his shoulder. "Come on, Ellie, I promise it will be worth the walk."

  The air was crisp and far cleaner than that in London. As she walked beside him with the autumn leaves crunching beneath her slippers, she felt as though London and Rand and her troubles were far removed from this present, peaceful place, as though they were a whole world away.

  He held her elbow, guiding her down the path until she stepped on a rock and nearly slipped. Then, with no words between them, he slid his hand down her arm to clasp her fingers. And they walked thus until they came to the hill above the village.

  "It is lovely, isn't it?" she murmured. "It is like going back in time."

  "Yes. Sometimes I would that I could go back—not to Scotland, but to here," he admitted. His hand tightened on hers, squeezing it "If I could have a wish, I should want to live here with you and never go back to London."

  Unable to let him see what his words did to her, she fastened her gaze on the mossy trunk of a tree. "You cannot run away from Dunster any more than I can desert Papa," she said.

  "I want you to stay with me."

  Never in her life had she wanted anything as much, never had she wanted to believe as much as now, but she knew also that he was promised to Jane Barclay. And as foolish as she'd been before, she knew now that her heart went with her body, that she could not separate one from the other. And she could not and would not allow herself to love someone she could not have forever.

  "No," she said finally, not daring to meet his eyes. "I shall tell you what Elizabeth Woodville told Edward IV in slightly different words: I am not good enough to be your wife, but I am too good to be your mistress. I don't want to share you with Lord Dunster's daughter."

  "Ellie—"

  He was so near she could smell again the Hungary water he'd splashed on his face, and she could feel the warmth of his body. As he turned her to face him, she fought the urge to cry. And when his lips were so close that his breath caressed her cheek, she tore herself away.

  "If I let you kiss me, Patrick, I will not want you to stop," she told him, her voice scarce
above a whisper. "I beg you will not shame me further."

  "You cannot tell a man you want him also, and expect to turn him away, Ellie," he said softly. Putting his hands on her shoulders, he turned her around once more. "I am telling you I want you above everything."

  It was as though she were brittle, as though if he touched her, she should break, and yet she could not force herself to push him away again.

  "Please, Patrick—do not—"

  Her words died against his lips, and the heat that leapt within her was searing, melting her resolve. She clung to him, giving kiss for kiss, until she could not breathe. His hands moved over her eagerly, urging her desire, uniting them in need. His tongue licked the sensitive shell of her ear, sending a shiver through her, as his breath rushed hotly, urgently. "I know a place where we'll not be discovered," he said hoarsely.

  "Patrick, I cannot—'tis wrong—"

  "Love me, Ellie—love me," he whispered. "Let us not think of tomorrow."

  Her whole body was fevered, wanting, as though there was nothing beyond his touch, and yet she had to deny what she felt for him. As his hands traced fire over her hips, she pushed at him. "Don't ask this, Patrick—I—"

  "Ellie—Ellie—"

  " Tis not fair to me or to Jane!"

  "Damn Jane! 'Tis you I want, Ellie—'tis you!"

  She tore away from him at that, and before he could stop her, she ran pell-mell down the path toward the church as though hell pursued her. For a moment he stared after her, trying to calm the desire that still raged through him, then he hurried to catch her.

  "Don't do this to me, Ellie," he said, taking her arm.

  "To you?" she choked out. "Don't do this to me! Swallowing to calm herself, she looked away. "I'm sorry. I have no right to act thus—not after you saved my life—and not since you are trying to save Papa. You have kept your end of the bargain, and I know it, but I want more than this."

  He dropped his hand. "I don't want you to be sorry," he said, his voice betraying his sense of defeat "I want to make you happy, Ellie—I want to make both of us happy."

  "You cannot. The fault lies within me, Patrick, and I am only paying for my folly. I did not know it would make such a difference to me." She dared to raise her eyes to his. "I had put the pieces of my life together after Ben, and it is as though they have shattered all over again." She swallowed visibly. "I cannot stand anything more, Patrick—I cannot," she whispered miserably.