Moon Dreams (13 page)

Alyson sighed and continued to look over the wharf. Small boats,
canoes, and pirogues maneuvered in between the larger ships, unloading the
fresh produce and fish for the day. People were starting to accumulate among
the fish and vegetable stalls to inspect the merchandise as it arrived. Soon
the wharf would be quite crowded. If she could just get across that plank . . .

“I’m sure he means well, Dougall, but it does make it very
difficult for me to show my gratitude for his care. How can I surprise him when
he is always with me? His best coat needs new buttons, and . . .
well, I ruined his blotter when I emptied most of his inkwell on it. I thought
it might please him if I replaced it.”

Dougall looked as if she’d crushed his lonely heart. “The
captain don’t deserve your care, Miss Hampton, but I’ll see to it. Wait here a
minute while I tell Jake where we’re going, and I’ll escort you personally. The
captain can’t object to that, once he understands how you feel.”

Alyson breathed a sigh of relief as Dougall strode off to
relay his message. She had never done anything so difficult in her life, but
she had a feeling it would get worse instead of better. Now she would have to
lose poor Dougall in the crowded streets of Charleston.

That part went quite well. She lingered so long over the
selection of buttons in a storefront just off the wharf that the poor man took
to watching the pretty girls passing in the street. It was a simple matter to
have the shopkeeper show her his warehouse of goods behind the store, and from
there to step out the rear entrance into the street above the one Dougall
waited on. She was free!

Fat matrons in skirts lacking London’s panniers elbowed her
aside as Alyson tried to lose herself in the crowd around the market. Black
servants perversely blocked her way when she tried to dodge around them. Small
boys in slouch hats and loose homespun shirts darted in and out around her
legs, nearly sending her stumbling into a portly wigged gentleman sniffing at a
fruit she did not recognize.

After the routine of six weeks on a ship, this crowd of
colors, people, sights, sounds, and scents was exhilarating, but exhausting.
Her stomach rumbled at the sight of fresh strawberries and the smell of pastry
baking nearby. She wrapped her fingers around the coins in her pocket and
wished heartily to indulge in a brief spurt of marketing, but she could not.
She had to find somewhere safe before Rory found her gone.

She would have enjoyed sharing the excitement of Charleston
with him, she realized with regret. He would have told her what those strange
fruits were, explained why the black ladies in their drab clothes wore those
colorful kerchiefs around their heads, told her which of those
scrumptious-smelling pastries would be the best. Instead, she had to hurry past
them all without knowing, wondering if she would ever know, or if she would
ever see him again.

The whole purpose of her flight was to never see Rory again,
she reminded herself. She was bad for him, her vision told her clearly. She
could see no other explanation for that stranger she saw behind his eyes
sometimes when he looked at her. She would make him do wicked things, and he
would destroy her. She could interpret that much of her vision. She couldn’t
let that happen.

That thought put a brisk pace in her step until she reached a
milliner’s shop window on the main thoroughfare and hesitated. Rory had said
she looked no better than a char girl in this gown. It would really be better
if she could look more like a Lady Alyson Hampton, but dressmakers took time. A
new hat would be quick and easy, but one glance down at her faded skirt warned
that any intelligent shopkeeper would think she had stolen her coins.

She would have to quit her daydreaming, as Rory called it,
and get on with it. She had already made up her mind that the first place to go
was to a solicitor’s. Mr. Farnley had been extremely helpful; surely she could
find some gentleman in Charleston who would be the same.

With that thought in mind she passed up the shop windows and
began scanning the wooden signs and discreet brass plaques on brick walls to
determine which ones might be solicitors. It wasn’t quite as easy as she
thought it would be. There were taverns aplenty, shoemakers, clothiers,
dry-goods merchants, and blacksmiths, but she trudged up and down dusty streets
in a sun that grew rapidly hotter without finding any trace of anything
resembling the impressive edifices of Farnley and Farnley.

Carriages bearing ladies in beautiful silks and parasols
rolled by. Wagonloads of straw and farm products rattled past. Rough seamen in
baggy breeches and elegant gentlemen in long frock coats and all the levels in
between brushed past or stared after her, but she dared question none of them.
She could scarcely tell them whom she was looking for when she didn’t know
herself.

At last she escaped the crowded street of shops and entered
a quiet side street of brick town houses. The shutters were pulled closed on
many of the elegant windows on the south side, and Alyson imagined the rooms
inside to be dark and cool against the sun. Her throat was parched, her feet
ached, and she felt filthy and disheveled. Perhaps she ought to just apply for
the position of servant and learn more about the city before searching further.

It was then that she saw the sign in the lower window of one
of the older structures: “Harold B. Lattimer, Attorney-at-Law.” Would that be
the same thing as a solicitor? Mr. Farnley knew the law. He could write wills
and things. Perhaps this Mr. Lattimer could do the same.

Alyson gazed up at the brick town house with its facade of
evenly spaced Georgian windows, matching lintels and pediments. It looked
respectable, weathered, and well-cared-for. What better way to judge the
occupant?

Having approved of the office, Alyson gave no thought to the
occupant’s approval of her. She knew who she was and where she was going, and
although she was arriving in a slightly bedraggled state, she had very good
reason for doing so.

A male clerk standing at a tall desk with an open ledger
glanced up at her in surprise when she entered. He gaped openly at her
unfashionable mop of black curls and faded clothes and said nothing.

Since there was no one else about that he could be staring
at, Alyson self-consciously brushed down her woolen skirt and checked her fichu
to make certain nothing had become disarranged, then met the gawping stranger’s
gaze directly. “I have come to see Mr. Lattimer,” she announced.

The youth closed his mouth and ran ink-stained fingers up
under his tilted wig. Prodded by the slight lift of her eyebrow, he stumbled
into his usual inquiry. “May I ask who’s calling?”

“Lady Alyson Hampton, if you please. It’s quite important.
Is he in?”

He looked at her as if she were barmy and took the excuse
she offered. “No, my lady, he’s not in right now. Do you wish to make an
appointment?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have time for that, I need to see him now.
Do you know when he will return?” Alyson was growing restless. Rory would know
of her escape by now. She did not know for certain, but she suspected he would
be combing the city for her. She daren’t leave the safety of this house until
she had some guarantee of protection.

The youth stuttered. “Anytime, I suppose, but he’s busy. If
you would . . .”

Without listening to whatever senseless suggestion he might
make, Alyson picked up her hopelessly heavy skirt and advanced toward the door
leading into the rest of the house. She would not be thrown out into the street
by a mere clerk. “Thank you. I will make myself at home until Mr. Lattimer
arrives. If you would, a glass of water—if you have nothing better—would be
refreshing.”

She uttered this last as she pushed open the door and sailed
into the hall. To her right was obviously a library of sorts. To her left, a
gentleman in powdered wig and old-fashioned full-bottomed frock coat was just
stepping from an office, hat in hand. Alyson heard the clerk’s protesting “Mr.
Lattimer!” behind her, and she frowned. The boy had lied.

The gentleman glanced up in surprise. Alyson blushed,
abruptly aware of her hair flying loose like a child’s. But she lifted her patched
and faded skirts as if they were satin, revealing a petticoat of expensive
quality. Mimicking Rory’s elegant aunt, she dipped a curtsy with grace and
hauteur.

“Is there something I might do for you, Miss . . . ?”
He looked inquiringly over her shoulder to the nervous lad behind her.

Alyson supplied the name the slow-witted youth did not. “Lady
Alyson Hampton. Mr. Lattimer, I assume?”

“Yes, of course, my lady.” With a courtly gesture he indicated
the way into his office.

Alyson made herself comfortable in a leather chair by a
window overlooking the street. She sat primly with her hands crossed in her lap
as if they were clad in expensive mittens and waited for him to take a seat.

“Now, my lady, how might I help you?”

“I have been abducted and brought here against my will, Mr.
Lattimer. I would like you to send a letter to my solicitor in London at once
informing him of my whereabouts and that I am quite well. He will need to draw
on my funds and send me a bank draft sufficient for a comfortable return
journey when it is safe to make one. If at all possible, I would also have him
look into pressing charges against my cousin, the Earl of Cranville, because
while he walks the streets, I am not safe.”

A man who deals with the public learns early how to separate
the wheat from the chaff. He began his interrogation just as Mr. Farnley would
have. “Your solicitor’s name, Lady Alyson?”

Alyson approved of the question. “The senior Farnley, of
Farnley and Farnley, Chancery Lane, London.”

He jotted down the information, then took another stab at
disconcerting her. “I should think the Earl of Cranville to be a trifle old to
be your cousin, Lady Alyson. We belonged to the same club when I was attending
Oxford, and he was considerably older than myself.”

“You knew my grandfather? That is wonderful. Then you will
understand my situation.” Alyson sat forward eagerly in her chair. “You will
help me, won’t you? It is terrifying to be in a strange place where I know no
one. And I am so afraid my cousin will try to prove I’m dead and steal my
money, and then where would I be? And I cannot return until I know he cannot
harm me again.”

Glancing at her strange costume, he made one more attempt. “You
do realize that your request will take a considerable amount of time and money?”

“If you intend to charge me an exorbitant amount, you will
have to collect it from Mr. Farnley, for I must replenish my wardrobe and find
somewhere to stay until I have a reply.” Pulling out the gold coin she had
placed in her pocket for just this purpose, Alyson set it on the desk. “Will
this be sufficient to begin the process?”

Genuine coins of the realm were such a rare commodity that
Lattimer seemed to be resisting the urge to pick it up and test it with his
teeth. “I could try a murder case on an advance less than this, Lady Alyson. I
shall have that letter out on the next ship, in the packet of a personal friend
of mine. Now, I will need to know more of your story so Mr. Farnley may begin
filing charges, but first, why don’t I take you to meet my wife and daughter? I
think you will be much more comfortable once you have had a chance to rest from
your ordeal.”

Proud of her accomplishment, Alyson sailed out of the office
on the arm of Mr. Howard Lattimer, attorney-at- law. Let Maclean try to find
her now.

***

Maclean was trying to do just that. Returning to his ship
loaded down with packages full of all the feminine finery he could acquire at a
moment’s notice, he found the
Sea Witch
strangely quiet. He had not
given any of his men permission to go ashore. There was the small matter of a
hold full of illegal brandy that had to be disposed of first. He had paid the
necessary bribes, and the wagons would be arriving shortly. Where in hell was
his crew?

Stalking through the empty ship, Rory entered his cabin in a
fury edged with panic. Dougall waited for him, a sorry Dougall with bloodshot
eyes and loosened jabot and an entire bottle of Scotch nearly emptied before
him. Rory glanced around, and finding no Alyson hiding behind the curtains,
felt his panic grow. He dropped the packages on the bunk and grabbed his first
mate by the collar.

“Where is she, Dougall?”

“I dinna know. It’s all my fault. I wrote my resignation. It’s
right there.” He hiccuped and pointed to a sodden note on the table. He didn’t
even try to free himself from Rory’s stranglehold. “She just disappeared. I
have no idea . . . The men are searching for her. Maybe she just
got lost.”

Rory flung his friend back in the chair with disgust. “How,
Dougall? How did she just disappear? Did she take wings and fly? Did a hole
open up in the deck and swallow her? How? Dammit, man, tell me!”

“She wanted to buy you buttons.” Dougall’s words slurred as
he carefully recited his story. “I was right there with her. I dinna think it’d
hurt. She’s in love with you, you know, and she wanted to make you happy, and
she was going to buy you buttons and a blotter.” Remembering that odd piece of
information, Dougall threw a nervous look to the captain’s desk. The blotter was
perfectly intact.

“Buttons? Blotter?” Rory stared at him with incredulity.
What did love have to do with buttons and a blotter? Was Alyson’s madness
contagious?

Dougall tried to maintain a semblance of dignity as Rory
flung him back in his chair. “That’s what she said. So I took her up the street
and waited while she picked them out. Only I looked away for a minute, and she
was gone. I dinna know how, Maclean, honest, I dinna!”

Rory knew how—the same way she had done it several times
before. She just picked up those dainty little feet and walked away, right into
a pot of trouble, every time. He was going to wring her neck when he found her
this time.