Secret Night (46 page)

"Good. It's a comfort to me knowing as you'll be taken care of. And don't you be worrying none about cutting up his hopes, you hear? When he's got my money, there's plenty as will look to him—aye, he can buy his votes, if he's a mind to."

''No, he's not like you," she said, smiling. "But you did not send for me to speak of Hamilton, did you?"

"Just wanted to see you, that's all. Proud of you, Ellie—demned proud of you, damme if I ain't. Wanted you to know it." His eyes fixed on hers for a moment, then he looked away. "You was always my little gel."

“Papa, are you
crying?"
she asked incredulously.

"Aye—mebbe I am, Puss. It's been hard for me bring
here, you know."

She leaned across the table to possess his hands. "You are going to get out, Papa. Patrick will find a way—he'll prove you innocent in court. I know it, Papa—as surely as I breathe, I
know
it."

That's m'gel, Ellie," he said, his voice nearly breaking. "You always loved your papa, didn't you?"

“You cannot give up! You cannot! Patrick—"

"Here now—none of this, Puss," he managed gruffly. "Ain't no time for both of us to be maudlin loots, is it? I wasn't wanting you here so's you could cry, you know." He reached to lift her chin. "I was wanting you to know as how you are everything to me, that's all." He let his hand fall to the table. "But I ain't been feeling good lately, Puss."

“You've been ill?"

“Not ill, precisely," he murmured evasively. "Just got these pains in m'chest, that's all. Got to thinking .in how a man don't know the day nor the hour, and -

“I’ll send 'round to Dr. Davis," she promised quickly. "Ten to one it is but something you've eaten,
but—"

"I ain't seeing no quacks."

"I shall have him here in the morning."

"Waste of money!" he snorted. "Ain't no sense in healing what is going to hang, is there?"

"You are not going to hang! Please, Papa, I'd not hear you say such things—you are not going to hang! I won't let them hang you!"

"Ellie—Ellie—don't, Puss." He rose awkwardly and moved with an effort, dragging his irons with him. Coming up behind her, he laid a hand on her shoulder. "All right—I ain't going to hang. There—is that better?"

"Yes." She twisted in her chair, turning to bury her head against his waistcoat much as she'd done as a child. "Don't say such things," she choked out.

His hand stroked her hair. "All right." He looked down, seeing not the lovely woman she'd become, but rather the little girl she'd always been to him, and his resolve stiffened. "Go on with you now, Puss. You send Davis 'round tomorrow, and I'll see him. Until then, you go home and make yourself pretty for Hamilton, you hear? A man don't want a Friday-face—you remember that, eh? Now, give your papa a kiss ere you go."

She stood and turned to embrace him. "I'll be here in the morning, Papa. There'll be a way—you'll see. As long as we both breathe, we are not done yet."

"Aye."

As she left him, she felt an intense unease. Shaking it off, she told herself he was all right, that it was probably nothing more than the blue-devils brought on by his confinement. What he needed was to be free, that was all. Perhaps Dr. Davis could prescribe something for his nerves.

As her footsteps receded, Rand went to the window to watch the street outside. The rain came down steadily now, striking the deserted gallows. Tomorrow there would be a hanging, a guard had said, but he wouldn't be here to watch it.

Down toward the corner, he saw her dash toward his carriage, and he nearly lost his resolve. But then he thought of Sam Rose's son, and he knew he had to do it. This way, she wouldn't be leaving him like Em had. This way, she could still believe in him. This way, he wouldn't have to see the revulsion in her face.

He waited until the coach disappeared, then he went to the trunk and took out the opium cake. The small flecks of ground jessamine beckoned to him, promising no pain. Carrying it back to his table, he sat down and broke it up, then put it into his cup. Adding rum, he stirred the mixture with his finger, telling himself that he had to be certain to drink all of it.

He swallowed greedily, downing it, then shuddered at the bitter taste. Refilling his cup, he swirled the telltale dregs, then drank again, taking the last trace. Oddly, he felt nothing, and yet the deed was done.

He rose again, this time to go to his bed. Lying down, he pulled his blanket up and waited for oblivion
.
His thoughts turned again to Elise. Hamilton would never tell her, he was sure of that She'd mourn him properly, and it would be over. Maybe Hamilton would even let her name a son Bartholomew after him. Aye, that would be something.

Ills mouth began to tingle, and his tongue felt thick. He closed his eyes, seeing Maddie Coates again, remembering
how eagerly she'd taken the tainted opium. It hadn't taken Maddie long, as he recalled. And
it had been painless.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the numbness crept, taking more and more of his body, making it more and more difficult to breathe. He was suffocating now. He tried to cry out, but he couldn't form the words. Panicked, he struggled, but it was too late—they were waiting for him across the darkening chasm, all of them. Maddie, Big Tom, Peg, Ben Rose, and all the others—they were grasping for him, pushing him into the deep, black hole. And he was looking into hell.

Elise stood, staring out onto the street below, seeing the carriages pass by the street lamps, hearing the wheels spray muddy water. A careless pedestrian, his head covered by a newspaper, started across, then stepped back, cursing a driver for ruining his clothes. Another time, she might have been amused by the scene, but just now the blue-devils threatened to overwhelm her.

She hadn't heard from Patrick, and just now she wanted him to hold her, to tell her that everything could somehow come out right. That there was nothing to fear. That her father would not hang. That the jeering, mindless mobs would not come again.

Her thoughts turned to her strange visit with Rand. It wasn't like him to complain of illness—nearly everything else, but not illness. Ordinarily, he would despise the very weakness of admitting any ailment. But he hadn't looked well when she'd left him, not at all, and now as she waited, hoping Patrick would come, she wondered if perhaps she ought to have summoned Dr. Davis rather than delay until tomorrow.

Perhaps her father was merely as melancholy as she was. Perhaps it was his mind rather than his body that ailed. Not that she ought to have expected otherwise, she chided herself. After a month in Newgate, where his window faced the gallows, he had a right to be downcast.

"You going back to Barfreston after ye've seen Mr. Hamilton?" Molly asked behind her.

Elise dropped the curtain and stepped back. "Not for a while. Papa needs me just now."

"Aye. I
s'pose Lizzie'll be all right, but that Pate creature ain't too fond of Button—
if
it wasn't for Mr. Hamilton, that dog'd never be in the house."

"I
should have called Dr. Davis—I
know it."

"Eh?"

"Nothing. I
shall just have to send for him in the morning."

Molly moved closer. "Ye know what ails ye? Ye ain't taking care of yerself like ye was to need to. Ye ain't rating and ye ain't sleeping. And yer worryin' as Mr. Hamilton ain't coming, ain't ye?"

"I don't even know if
he's been home to get my message."

"If he ain't here tonight, he'll be here tomorrow," the maid declared. "Man's head over heels." When Elise did not answer, she decided, "Well, I'm going down and get a supper fer ye, and then I'm going ter stand over ye until it's gone, I am."

“I'm not hungry. Maybe I am too tired to be hungry."

"And it'd be a wonder if ye wasn't now, wouldn't it? Yesterday ye was in Kent, and now ye're in London."

“'Maybe I shall just retire early."

"No, ye ain't—not until ye've eaten. Why, they've got suppers fit fer the nobs—the girl as brought the linens was telling me Wellington himself has dined here."

'Teuton's has always been noted for its food." Elise stared into the fire.
"I
don't know—maybe it is the rain more than anything," she murmured absently.

"Ye could go down to eat," the girl said slyly. "Do you a bit of good, it would."

When Elise didn't answer, Molly sighed. "All right, hut don't ye be complaining about what I bring ye— whatever it is, ye got ter eat it." Before Elise could refuse, she slipped out the door.

Halfway down the steps, she encountered a grim Patrick Hamilton. When he saw her, he didn't smile.

"Where is Miss Rand?"

"Second door on the left at the top," the girl told him. She hesitated, then blurted out, "I
hope naught's amiss, fer she's already in a queer taking—right cast down, in fact."

"Rand's dead."

The maid stood stone-still. "Dead?" she echoed. "Oh, no! I don't know as how she's to take anything more!"

He nodded. "If you do not mind, I should like to go up to tell her alone."

"Aye. I was going ter fetch her dinner, but—"

"Go ahead and get it. Just don't come back for a while."

"She'll be in an awful taking, Mr. Hamilton."

"I know. I brought some laudanum in case she needs it."

He went on up, found the door, and rapped on it lightly. At first, he thought she may not have heard him, then she answered, "If you are come back to ask me again what I want, I shall say I don't want anything," she said tiredly.

He turned the knob and pushed the door inward. She had her back to him as she stood before the fire. He hesitated, feeling utterly helpless, knowing she would probably go to pieces when he told her. But he had to do it. He'd rather she heard it from him than anyone else. And he knew he loved her enough to lie to her.

"It is still raining," he said softly.

It was as though her heart paused. As she turned around slowly, her pulse quickened at the sight of him. Then her smile died with the realization that something was terribly wrong.

There was no easy way to say it. He waited only until he reached her. "Rand is dead, Elbe," he said gently. "It is over, and he did not suffer."

"Dead?" she echoed, not comprehending. "But— but how? I saw him but hours ago, and—"

"Apparently his heart gave out. God, Ellie, but I'd give anything not to tell you." His arms closed around her shoulders, drawing her to him. "He died in his sleep shortly after you visited him. The jailer who brought his dinner found him on his cot and could not rouse him."

"No! But he cannot be-—he cannot be!" Yet even as she cried it, she knew in her own heart it had to be true. Rand had somehow had a premonition, and he'd summoned her to say good-bye. "I
knew
I should have sent for the doctor! I should have made him see the doctor!"

"Don't, Ellie," he whispered, holding her, aching for her. "They said it wouldn't have made any difference."

She wept unconsolably against his rain-spattered coat, and he stood there, stroking her soft hair, her shaking shoulders until he could stand it no longer. Rand hadn't deserved her grief, but she must never know it.

"Ellie . .. Ellie .. ." he whispered. "He won't have to stand trial . . . he won't have to face the hate of the mobs . .. he's safe now, Ellie."

"He was afraid—at the end he was afraid—" she choked out.

"He's not afraid anymore, sweetheart. He went easily," he murmured soothingly.

"I suppose I ought—I ought to be grateful for that at least, but I loved him, Patrick! I wasn't ready for him to leave me!" She bit her lip and tried to control herself. " 'Tis selfish of me, I know, but—"

"He didn't want to go to trial, Ellie. He was spared that at least."

"But he was innocent! Surely—surely he would have been set free!"

"He's free now." Everything he said seemed so terribly inadequate in the face of her grief, but he had to try anyway. "The prison physician says his heart was weak—that it could have happened anytime."

"But it did not have to happen in prison!" She caught herself and took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. It is not your fault, Patrick. You have been nothing but kind and helpful to us. 'Tis just so sudden—so unexpected-—and I—" A deep shudder went through her.

"You are right, of course," she managed, swallowing. "I just cannot believe he is gone, I guess."

"I know." She was calmer now, but he did not stop stroking her hair as he spoke as rationally as he could. "I have sent to your mother, telling her that I am taking you home to Kent as soon as a private service can be held. Rand and I had a rather lengthy conversation yesterday, and I know he would have wished for peace between those he loved best," he went on. "I have asked her to come to Barfreston to be with you."

"But she
left
him—when he needed her, she deserted Papa," she said miserably.

"I know, but we all deal differently with our disappointments, my love. She must've felt terribly betrayed at the time." Releasing her, he reached into his pocket for his handkerchief. "You are a great deal stronger woman than she is, Ellie—you have the courage to go on." Dabbing at her eyes, he managed to smile crookedly. "I have hopes you will go on with me, and that we'll have bright-haired sons and daughters lining a pew beneath the rose window. Rand would have liked that, you know."

She looked away. "Patrick, I cannot marry you— not now."

"I am not at all sure I can wait a whole year, Ellie."

"If you marry me at all, the Tories won't have you. It will always be said you wed a murderer's daughter, whether 'tis true or not."

He reached to lift her chin with his knuckle, forcing her to look at him. "It doesn't matter," he answered softly. "They can all rot in hell for all I care."

"But your hopes—your career—"

"All my hopes lie in you—every one of them. And I have gained enough notoriety to keep my practice healthy for the rest of my life," He smiled again. "I would have made a miserable Tory, anyway. You've seen to it that I don't believe in half of what they stand for."

"But you always wanted Parliament—it was to be your stage, Patrick. Indeed, but you said so yourself."