Sea of Secrets: A Novel of Victorian Romantic Suspense (3 page)

However, after a few years of passionately devoting myself to this dream, I realized that even a benevolent God might not smile upon an acolyte who took such pleasure and pride in reading Catullus and Gautier. It was more than likely that one who had consecrated herself to a holy life should not be so receptive to the scandalous satire of Byron. Besides, who was to say that a spiritual Father would be any kinder, any less harsh, cold, or exacting than my earthly one? I was not ready to blindly submit myself to a new lord after my treatment at the hands of the present one. Fathers struck dread in me. The Holy Mother was a more attractive figure, but she seemed to be, at best, an intermediary. So at seventeen I abandoned this plan and cast about for another.

It was at this time that Father seemed to regain some hope that I might be salvaged. Perhaps I showed some signs of a hitherto unsuspected beauty; more likely, he did not wish to completely dismiss all hopes of me without strong proof that they were in vain. Father did not attain his prestigious career by abandoning unpromising avenues without exhausting all their possibilities first. With some such aim in mind, no doubt, he introduced into the household a relative of my mother’s, a countess, whose purpose was to sniff out any dormant charm I might possess and chivy it into the light.

She went about her task with a formidable energy and persistence that were exhausting to me, if not to her. My comfortable, simple dresses and practical boots were rejected in favor of a cruelly fashionable new toilette, which included a corset, dozens of petticoats, and painfully tiny slippers; thus encumbered I had singing lessons (when I could not draw breath for my stays) and dancing lessons (when every step pinched unbearably). The countess and her maid spent hours every day in a grim struggle with my heavy, straight hair as they attempted to skewer it into beauty. In the end their efforts, zealous as they had been, came to nothing; after a disastrous presentation at a tea for a bevy of society ladies, I was relegated again to my semi-solitude in the upper regions of the house, and the countess was dismissed. She left immediately, taking with her my expensive new wardrobe. I was not sorry to see the end of either, although Lionel had been charmed by my new look; in fact, I recalled sending the poor woman’s coach away with a shower of hairpins.

I had been leaning on my elbows on the windowsill, in my habitually unladylike position since no one was ever there to correct me, but now I sat up abruptly. The countess had been a relative of my mother’s; that I remembered. Yet she had not appeared at the funeral. I had not thought anything about it at the time because I never saw any of my mother’s family; I had never met any but the countess, in fact. For the first time it occurred to me to wonder if my mother’s death had caused some breach between my father and his wife’s relatives. Of course, this may have been excited imagination; more likely they had died out, or moved far away. Still, it was strange that Father never referred to them, especially since I knew he would be quick to advertise his connection to anyone with a title.

I sat thinking until I heard Father’s steps on the floor below going to his room. When I was certain he had retired and would not emerge again, I crept noiselessly out of my room and down the stairs to his study. Skeptic he may have been, but my father still kept the old Bible in which, I hoped, the branches of the family would be recorded. I had never seen it opened, but it was displayed impressively on its own stand by his desk.

I had not been mistaken. When I lit the gas and unfastened the clasps on the great book, I found at once what I sought. All my relatives for generations back were recorded, the most recent entries in my father’s angular, precise hand. There was Lionel’s name, with the date of his death inked in beneath in strong black strokes. Next to his was my name, Oriel Pembroke, the only legacy my mother had left me.

But ours were not the only names on the line reserved for the present generation. The line, in fact, was almost full; four more names elbowed in next to Lionel’s and mine.

I had cousins.

Astonished, I stared at the page. I was so unprepared for this that I could almost convince myself that my father had made a mistake, that the names had been carelessly placed and these relatives belonged to some long-dead branch of the family. But my father, whatever his imperfections, was a meticulous man; he would not have committed to paper anything but the scrupulous truth. I had cousins whose presence I had never suspected, whom I had never known. Where were they, that we had never met? Were these my mother’s family?

The names of their parents should give me the answer. Almost dizzily I traced upward from the unfamiliar clutch of names—two male and two female—to find myself staring at one I knew instantly. Gwendolyn Reginald, third Duchess of Ellsworth. My mother’s stepsister.

My dear girl
(the letter read),

What a delightful surprise your note was! I never dreamed of hearing from you. Indeed, I did not know you were living; it has been so many years since I have seen you, and you but a tiny baby then. You must be the image of your sweet mother by now, and quite grown up.

Yes, by all means do call while I am in town. I am longing for us to become acquainted, and I would welcome the opportunity to express my sympathy for the loss of your poor brother in person. I am at home on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. Do call soon so that we may begin to make up for the years we have been lost to one another.

Affectionately, Gwendolyn Ellsworth

The room I was shown into was a haven of warmth, light, and color after the dreary rain-drenched day outside. The maid took my dripping cloak with the faintest curl of her lip to register the puddles it was leaving on the pale carpet. But she said civilly enough, “Her Grace and the other ladies will be returning soon, if you will wait in here.”

I thanked her, wondering about the “other ladies,” but I did not want to display my ignorance before her. I had not bargained for a gathering, and my courage, already halfhearted, threatened to turn tail and flee. I made myself sit down, when I really wished to follow the maid back out of the room and leave the way I had come.

The duchess’s London house was in one of the fashionable cul-de-sacs I had never had cause to venture into before, and the noise of the traffic barely penetrated. There was a restful quiet here, underscored by the self-deprecating tick of the mantel clock and the crackling of the fire. My tired feet, which had carried me all the way from my own house since I had no pocket money for a hansom, sank gratefully into a thick carpet patterned with cherry blossoms. This sitting room was evidently the duchess’s own domain, for everything about the room bespoke femininity: the rose-hued damask curtains and coverings, the touches of gilt, the delicate curving lines of the furniture. After the tasteful but austere surroundings I was accustomed to, this room was a revelation. In spite of myself I began to relax under its serene influence.

That serenity was swept aside an instant later when the double doors burst open to admit what seemed in that first moment to be a dozen young women. After the first commotion was past I was able to see that there were only four women, and not all young, but the room seemed full to brimming over with the cheerful clamor of voices, the rustling of their massive skirts, and the gay colors of their dresses. Holding out her hands to me, the prettiest of the women approached me, and I got to my feet to curtsey.

“My dear child! So you did come. I so hoped you would, but I wasn’t certain—what with your being in mourning. Poor child, how dreadful for you, and your only brother. I am more sorry than I can say. But how glad I am that you came! It is all that was wanting to make my visit complete.”

“Your Grace,” I said feebly, feeling overwhelmed by this enthusiastic barrage of commiseration and delight. “It is such an honor to meet you—”

“Oh, come now, child, there’s no need for such formality among family,” she chided me, laughing. “For we
are
family. How good it is to see you again! Your mother was very dear to me, for all that we saw each other so little.… Felicity, Aminta, this is the young lady I told you about—your step-cousin, after all these years! Oh, it’s such a pleasure to see you, child!” And she flew to kiss my cheek and draw me down next to her on a divan, still chattering gaily on.

I was glad of the respite so that I could collect myself. This was the duchess? From the scandal that was still linked with her name, I had expected something like the tragic heroine of a classical drama; surely a woman who had defied convention to make such a sudden, shocking second marriage would reflect it in her appearance. I had pictured a handsome, darkly exotic woman with a fiery temperament and passionate, knowing eyes. It was difficult to reconcile my imaginings with this golden-haired, dimpled creature, who looked at first glance to be little older than myself.

Her eyes were blue and candid—not at all the sloe eyes of the temptress!—and bright earrings bobbed and chimed in response to her animation as she spoke. Her hands were small and dainty, her waist as slender as an eighteen-year-old’s, and instead of the rich velvets I had expected her to wear she was dressed in a confection that brought a rush of pure longing to my heart: pale blue taffeta, with at least six flounces on the skirt, each scalloped and trimmed with white silk fringe. To my dazzled, inexperienced eyes, she looked like a fairy princess, where I had expected a Cleopatra.

“But I’m forgetting my manners,” she said now. “I haven’t introduced you properly. I mustn’t selfishly keep you all to myself.” Now that I dragged my eyes away from the fascinating duchess I could form more of an impression of the other three women. They were hanging back tactfully, trying not to look as if they were observing me—all except for the youngest, who was frankly staring. The duchess observed this at the same moment.

“The young lady who is so interested in you is Felicity, my niece—no, my daughter now!” she amended gaily. At her nod, Felicity made a neat curtsey. She could indeed have been the duchess’s daughter from her appearance: her long ringlets were honey-blonde like her aunt’s, and her dress, mint green with emerald trim, was almost a duplicate of the older woman’s. I guessed that she was a devoted admirer of her aunt-turned-stepmother. She must not have been out yet, since she still wore short skirts and looked to be perhaps seventeen. The smile she offered me was friendly, but inquisitive.

“And I’m Lady Montrose, Felicity’s older sister.” A woman in her middle twenties, with a heavy chignon of titian hair, stepped forward to clasp my hand in welcome. She was dressed in a more matronly fashion, but still very richly, and when she had stripped off her gloves she revealed a wedding band on her left hand. “Do call me Aminta,” she added. I was to find out later that her husband was a viscount, but she did not stand on ceremony with family.

Felicity was still regarding me with open curiosity. “How old are you?” she said abruptly.

“Miss Reginald, really!” exclaimed the last woman, and darted me a look that combined exasperation and apology. “I do beg your pardon, Miss Pembroke. You’d think she’d never learned manners.”

Felicity blushed. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to be rude. Poor Miss Yates despairs of me, I am so thoughtless. I believe that is why she forces me to recite poetry in company, so that I won’t embarrass her with such blunders.” She gave Miss Yates a teasing look, her own embarrassment forgotten.

“Miss Yates is Felicity’s governess, and as such I believe she qualifies for sainthood,” explained Aminta, settling herself in a chair and spreading her rust-colored skirts around her. She had a low, pleasant voice and a wide mouth that frequently quirked with amusement, especially when she regarded her sister.

Miss Yates, shaking her head amiably, took a seat near the fire. I had thought her a member of the family, from her self-assured bearing and her obvious place in the group of women. She had a face that must have been handsome twenty years before, and she dressed like no governess I had ever had, in a gown of poppy-colored wool and a rich paisley shawl. I envied Felicity; my own governesses had been of a very different stamp, tending toward moldy grey sateens, false hair, and moustaches.

“To be sure, Felicity is forever speaking before she thinks,” the duchess conceded. “But she’s a good girl at heart, and means nothing by it. I do hope you won’t hold her impetuous behavior against her, my dear.”

“Of course not,” I said. It was obvious that there was not a particle of spite in Felicity, and equally obvious that the others were used to her ways and indulged them; even, for all her scolding, Miss Yates. “There’s nothing in the question to offend. I’m twenty-one.”

“But you can’t be!” exclaimed Aminta, and I saw her eyes go to my hair. I wore it in a braid down my back—a schoolgirl style that, I was well aware, I should have abandoned years ago. But by the time I was old enough to put my hair up, Father had dismissed the last of my governesses—who never stayed long in any case—and I had never learned how to dress my hair in a fashion more appropriate to my age. Since I was never present when we had guests, and most certainly never visited others, I had never worried about my appearance. Now I thought about what an eccentric image I must present: my black gown was a necessity of mourning, but the severe, unadorned style and unfashionably narrow cut of the skirt and sleeves set me apart from the others as dramatically as if I wore a nun’s habit. Even the maid had worn a dress more fashionable than mine. I was long used to such plain clothes, since I made my own dresses with fabric grudgingly provided by Father, but I realized now how I must look to outsiders, and I felt my cheeks grow warm.

The silence threatened to become awkward, and the duchess broke it. “But how remiss of me; I have not offered you anything. Aminta, dear, ring for Eliza and ask for tea. I am sure we would all be glad of something to warm us.”

While we waited for the tea to arrive, she turned the subject to less personal matters. Grateful for her tact, I began to forget my self-consciousness, and the elegant array of cakes and savories brought by the maid provided a pleasant distraction. The duchess and her companions had been shopping that morning, and I listened hungrily to the details of the gowns they had ordered and the bonnets they had tried. Evidently the duchess had just come to London for a few days’ shopping, and was soon to rejoin her new husband.