Secret Night (30 page)

"I don't suppose it would hurt anything," Elise decided
.
"But she mustn't run loose. And you may have to mop up a puddle or two."

"I wouldn't mind it," the girl assured her.

"She might sleep if you wish to go back to bed."

"Ill take 'er ter bed wi' me."

A clock struck the three-quarter hour. "I'll send Molly for her before breakfast," Elise told her. "Oh, thankee, miss." The tweeny bobbed a quick curtsy, then ran up the stairs with the dog peering over
her shoulder.

Rubbing her arms to warm herself, Elise walked more
slowly, climbing to her own bedchamber. Once inside, she poured water into the china washbasin, removed her wrapper, and wiped herself clean before putting
on her nightgown. Fastening the tiny satincovered buttons to her chin, she returned to her bed. She
leaned over to blow out the candle stub, then she lay down again.

The
sheets were already cold, as though he'd not been there at all, but as she closed her eyes in the early morning darkness, she could still feel the heat of his mouth on her breasts, the strength of his body beneath hers. And despite the dull ache in her head, she felt
utterly, completely, sinfully sated.

E
lise came awake slowly, then stretched languorously as Molly threw open the window sash, declaring, "Ah, and a fine day for October it is, miss—truly it is." The maid breathed deeply before adding, "It don't look like it means ter rain."

"What time is it?"

"Past eleven." Molly closed the window reluctantly and turned around. "Ye was sleepin' like the dead, ye was. I tried to bring that Button up ter ye, but ye wasn't answerin'."

Elise turned over and yawned. Seeing the depression in the other pillow brought forth a flood of night memories that left her nearly weak. Then she spied Patrick Hamilton's wadded stocking on the floor, and her heart paused.

"Yes—well, perhaps you ought to bring her up now. I daresay Lizzie must be quite tired of her."

"No, she ain't And I wish ye'd been up ter see that monsoor when we was a-taking the creature out the back door ter do 'er business."

"Oh?"

"She ain't but a mite, but she fair jumped outer that tweeny's hands, and there she was a-barkin' and squeakin' at the Frenchy's foot like she was a-goin' ter bite 'im." Molly grinned. "Aye, ye'd a-thought her was big as one of them mastiffs, ye know."

"But she didn't bite him surely?"

"Oh, her tail was a-waggin' the whole time. But ye know what?" Before Elise could respond, the maid went on. "He was a-laughin' at her. Picked her up in his hand, he did, and gave her a sausage ter take out wi' her. Course we didn't get her out in time, and she piddled on his floor, but he said as one of the fellows could get it up. Ye got her named wrong though," Molly declared. "Button don't fit her. Flirt'd be more like it. All the men is liking her, and James says she's got ter be some sort of spaniel, 'cause her ears is floppin'."

"I have no idea." Seeing that Molly was about to move around the bed to straighten the disorder of her hastily discarded clothes, Elise rose quickly to block her path. "Why don't you bring her up to me?"

But the maid was not easily deterred. "Aye, and I will, but I got to get yer things up from the floor." She eyed Elise askance for a moment. "Ye ain't usually one as makes a mess, ye know."

"It was the punch—I could scarce find my way to bed."

"Oh, aye."

Elise took a long step to cover Hamilton's stocking with her foot. "Actually, it gave me quite a headache."

"I told Joseph as they was givin' ye too much of it," the maid murmured, bending to gather the muslin dress and lawn petticoat. Holding up the dress, she sighed. " 'Tis ruined, it is—ain't no ways as I can get It cleaned fer ye."

"I have others, so you might as well throw it in the fire."

"Be more like ter make rags of it," Molly decided. "And if ye was ter move, I'd get yer shoes and stockings up also."

"I'll pick them up myself later. Just now I should lather have a tisane for my head, thank you."

The girl nodded sympathetically. "Aye, ye was weasel-bit then, wasn't ye? I ain't never seen ye dose yerself fer anything." Folding the soiled clothes over her arm, she started for the door with them, then as Elise started to step off the stocking, the maid turned back. "Er—was ye wantin' a hair o' the dog mebbe? Or was ye wan tin' what Simpson gives yer papa?"

"I don't care—whatever you think is best."

"Aye—ye miss yer mum, don't ye?"

Elise didn't answer. Molly sighed, then left, closing the door. As soon as the maid was gone, the girl lifted her foot and picked up the soiled sock, looking for somewhere to put it. As new footsteps could be heard coming up, she hastily opened her writing desk drawer and shoved the stocking inside.

"Miss?" Joseph asked as he knocked.

"I am not dressed," she answered through the door.

"Ye got a caller downstairs as says the More woman has sent her."

"Hannah More sent her? What does she want?" she asked cautiously.

"She wasn't saying."

"Yes, of course." She could not very well spurn anyone Hannah sent, and she knew it. Not when the woman had taken care of seeing Pearl decently buried. "All right," she decided. "Put her in the blue saloon, offer her tea or something, and tell her I shall be down directly."

She washed her face and hands, then dressed quickly before pulling a comb through her tangled hair. Taking pins, she pulled the worst of it back and fastened it atop her head, leaving a few straggles to frame her face. Making a face at her image in the mirror, she went down.

As she entered the reception room, a black-clad female rose to greet her, holding out her black-gloved hand. "Miss Rand, I am Mrs. Barrow." Looking down at her dress, she murmured rather sadly, "The Widow Barrow now."

"I'm sorry," Elise said politely.

"Yes—well, Mrs. More thought perhaps we could help each other."

"Oh?"

The woman brought up her other hand, showing a small Bible. "She rather felt as though you might wish to pray with me."

"Oh."

"A terrible business about Mr. Rand—utterly terrible."

"Yes, it is."

"Prayer is good for the soul, you know." Mrs. Barrow stepped back self-consciously. "I daresay we are not at all acquainted," she conceded, looking at the rich elegance of the room. "Indeed, but I cannot say I have moved in your circle at all."

"I am not precisely certain what my circle is," Elise murmured. "But do sit down. Er—did Joseph offer you anything? Tea—or coffee perhaps? Or a sweet bun?"

"The footman? Yes, he did. I believe he is gone to get something just now." "Good."

The woman smiled wanly. "As if anything could make me forget my loss."

"How long has it been since Mr. Barrow passed on?"

"Last March." The woman looked down at the Bible in her lap. "But it seems as though he has been gone forever. Hannah—Mrs. More—said you had suffered a bereavement also, but I cannot think it quite the same."

"I was betrothed once, but Ben died before we were wed."

"I'm so sorry."

“Yes—well, so am I."

"We must believe that God's plan, however obscured from the eyes of man, is best, my dear." "Somehow I cannot accept He meant Ben to be murdered."

"No, of course not. And your poor unfortunate father—shocking, utterly shocking. Of course, I am sure he did not do those terrible things."

Mercifully, Joseph interrupted them by carrying in a tea tray. A junior footman followed with a silver plate of sugared buns. After they left, Elise dutifully poured two cups, asking courteously, "Sugar and cream?"

"Yes, but not too much."

Elise settled back with her tea, sipping of it, wishing the other woman at Jericho. "You must tell Mrs. More I appreciate her concern—and yours, of course."

"She thought it a very good thing if I should find someone to pray with besides her, particularly as I am not overly fond of her place at Cheddar." Mrs. Barrow set aside her cup and reached for a bun. "Mmmmm. These are quite good."

"Thank you. Monsieur Millet supervises the baking also."

"A Frenchman?" the woman said, sniffing. "Well, I have always thought perhaps we do not properly appreciate our own English food, but I expect it is not at all fashionable to say it."

"My father likes almost everything."

"Oh, the poor man." The woman popped the last of the bun into her mouth, then washed it down with her tea. "Now—where were we? Speaking of prayer— yes, that was it." Looking at Elise again, she shook her head. "You poor child. Hannah says you are possessed of such a goodly heart." When Elise remained silent, she went on, "When she told me of that unfortunate person who died alone in that hospital, I knew I should like you." Holding out her Bible, she said, "I have found divine sustenance in this. Indeed, but one has but to open it anywhere to discover the truth, and I have made a practice of trying to divine God's message to me through it."

"Sometimes God's message is difficult to fathom," Elise murmured.

"Oh, I assure you it is not—not at all. Here—you shall see precisely what I have discovered." She pushed the gold-stamped book into the younger woman's hands. "Go on—open it anywhere, and you will see. Whatever page it is, we shall consider it a divine revelation of the Almighty."

"Perhaps you ought to do it."

"No, no—I am here because of poor Mr. Rand. Now, close your eyes, open my Bible, and let the Lord guide your hand. Then when you look, you will have your comfort in Scripture."

"Yes, well, I cannot see how anything can help beyond direct divine intervention." But under Mrs. Barrow's determined gaze, Elise sighed and closed her eyes. Her fingers grasped the edge of the Holy Book, feeling along the top of the pages, then opening it. Her finger moved down halfway, then she dared to look at the printed words. As a chill went all the way to Elise's marrow, the woman leaned closer to see.

Elise read silently, then said tonelessly, " 'The wages of sin are death.' "

"Oh, dear. Well, perhaps we have not gone about it quite right. Perhaps we ought to pray for guidance first," Mrs. Barrow decided nervously. "I am sure that cannot be quite right." She took her Bible back and bowed her head. Closing her eyes, she prayed silently.

But Elise sat very still, turning her thoughts not to her father, but to Patrick Hamilton. The wages of her father's sin could not be death—Hamilton was going to save him—he had to—he had to. Dear God, but fie had to save Bat Rand from paying the wages of his sins.

When she looked up, the woman's lips were moving as she carefully opened her Bible. Her thin, black-gloved hand traced slowly down the page, then her finger pointed and stopped. As Elise watched, she looked down, then reddened.

"Well, I cannot say this is going to help at all," she slid uncomfortably.

"What is it?"

"Ezekiel, chapter 16, verse—well, 'tis either 38 or 39, but I am sure it does not signify in the least."

"May I see it?"

"Yes, but—" She handed across the open book.

Elise's eyes scanned the page, then stopped at “Wherefore, O harlot, hear the word of the Lord." Her eyes dropped lower and the words seemed to accuse her. "And I will also give thee unto their hand, and they shall throw down thine imminent place, and shall break down thy high places: they shall strip thee also of thy clothes, and take thy fair jewels, leaving thee naked and bare." Her finger moved down the page, finding more. "And they shall burn thine houses with fire, and execute judgments upon thee in the sight of many women: and I will cause thee to cease playing the harlot, and thou shalt give no hire any more."

She scarce heard Mrs. Barrow say, "Well, I am sure that cannot apply to Mr. Rand, for it speaks of a woman." She took the Bible back and shook her head. "Unless, of course, it concerns those women, explaining how they came to die. Yes, that must be it," she decided quickly. "It was by God's hand."

"I rather think that God does not stab and strangle harlots," Elise answered dryly.

"No, but perhaps He has allowed it to happen. Perhaps your father was but the instrument—"

"My father did not kill those women! And this is but a game, not revelation!" Taking a deep breath to calm herself, Elise managed to say more evenly, "There is no justification anywhere for what happened to those poor females." Taking back the Bible from the affronted woman, she quickly thumbed through it, finding the verse she wanted. "There—'God is love'—see that? A loving God does not destroy. Even Hannah will allow that He hates the sin and loves the sinner."

"Well, I am sure I did not mean—"

"Yer pardon, miss," Molly said apologetically from the door. "I brung yer hair o' the dog—Joseph said it was the best fer what ails ye."

As the maid gave her mistress the cup, Mrs. Barrow unbent enough to ask curiously, "What is it?"

"Rum," Elise announced baldly. She gave the appearance of drinking deeply, then smacked her lips. Looking across to the stunned woman, she nodded. "It is, after all, the only cure for being weasel-bit, isn't it?"

"I am sure I do not know," Mrs. Barrow responded faintly. Putting her plate on the table between them, she stood up. "My dear, I fear I have already stayed far too long. No, no—as I have my pelisse, there is no need at all for you to accompany me to the door— none, I assure you."

"I will tell Papa of your concern," Elise murmured without rising.

As the front door closed, Molly stared after the woman. "Well, she ain't one as lingers, is she? And ye—well, ye was downright brassy! I vow I ain't never seen ye like that before—never.''

"She was an encroaching female—one of those who pretends sympathy but is spurred by curiosity."

"Oh. Well, ye scandalized her." Molly reached for the cup. "Why, ye ain't drunk any of it."

"I don't want it. I'm afraid if I drank it, I might not stop with one."

"Ye going ter eat? If you was to want, I'd tell that monsoor to coddle some eggs fer ye."

"No. I am overlate as it is." Elise stood. "Papa will think I have forgotten him if I am not there before two."

Still angry with the foolish Barrow creature, she went out into the foyer and started up the stairs. Looking down, she saw the stack of her father's newspapers piled neatly on the reception table next to the empty card basket. She'd promised herself she wasn't going to read any more of their lies, but there was that within her that had to know what they said. Retracing her steps, she went back for the papers.