Sea of Secrets: A Novel of Victorian Romantic Suspense (4 page)

“We return to Ellsmere in a few days,” she explained, helping me to more bread and butter. “I had planned to stay in town for another week, but I find I’m impatient to return to my real home.”

“And to Papa,” interjected Felicity, with a giggle that won a stern look from Miss Yates.

The duchess dimpled. She looked as roguish, and as young, as her new stepdaughter. “Yes, I confess it. And of course I am eager to be with Herron again.”

“The duke,” explained Aminta to me. “Our cousin, and yours. I don’t suppose you’ll ever have met him.”

I shook my head.

“But you must meet him,” exclaimed the duchess. “And your other cousin, Felicity and Aminta’s brother. How terrible that you have been unknown to us for so long! You must promise to visit us at Ellsmere. We should try to make up for all these years of separation.”

I smiled politely. It was kindly meant, but why should they wish to court the acquaintance of an obscure relation like myself? The invitation could be for form’s sake only. “You’re very kind, ma’am.”

“For Christmas, perhaps.” The duchess was undeterred by the coolness of my reply. “We shall be having a large party to stay with us, so it will be a very merry time. Do say you’ll come and stay for a few weeks.”

“And there’ll be a ball,” put in Felicity.

“And the house is always so lovely when it’s decorated for the holidays. Imagine, reunited with your dear mother’s family for Christmas! Do say you’ll come.”

She gazed at me with eager expectant eyes, as if she were a child pleading for a treat instead of one of the most powerful aristocrats in the country. Evidently she was sincere. I swallowed a bite of cake and smiled; a bit sadly, for the invitation was tempting. “I wish I could, ma’am,” I said. “Unfortunately, I cannot make plans so far in advance. I have no idea where I shall be in December.”

“Whyever not?” asked—of course—Felicity.

“I am looking for a position,” I explained before the other ladies could rebuke her. Taking a deep breath for courage, I looked at the duchess. “In fact, ma’am, one reason I wished to meet you was to ask if you might know of a family who needs a governess. I have never worked as one before, but I am qualified to teach Latin and Greek as well as French, and my history and mathematics are fairly sound. I had hoped you might be able to suggest someone who would be willing to employ me. I have no one else to ask, and I”—there was no sense in disguising the urgency of it—“will need to find work at once.”

I waited, searching for a hopeful sign in her face, but her expression was—deliberately?—neutral. She set her teacup down with a faint chinking sound, her eyes fixed on me. Then, abruptly, as if recalling herself, she turned to the others.

“Miss Yates, do forgive me,” she said with a bright smile, “I forgot that I am keeping Felicity from her lessons. You have been very patient to let me detain her so long, and I’m sure her cousin will understand if she excuses herself. Oh, and Aminta, would you be an angel and speak to Cook? I have not yet settled tonight’s menu with her; she must be in a taking by now. I’d be so grateful.”

It was delicately handled, but no less definite a dismissal. The other ladies immediately rose and said their goodbyes to me before leaving us. Almost at once the double doors closed behind the last rustling skirt, and I was alone with the duchess.

“I hope I was not rude to send them away,” she said, but she was perfectly composed, and poured us both more tea. “Perhaps it was unnecessary, but I thought you might find it less awkward to discuss the matter in private. You’ll forgive me for being personal, child, but why are you in need of a position? I understood your father to be well situated financially. Has he suffered reverses of late?”

“Not financial ones.” I hesitated, staring into my teacup as I tried to decide how much to tell. There was no way I could make her understand the strange gulf that had always existed between Father and me. How could she believe such coldness could exist between parent and child, she who had evidently lived all her life secure in the admiration of those around her? I decided to tell her a part of the truth, a part that she might be able to accept.

“Since my brother’s death, I have been more of a burden to Father than a comfort,” I said carefully. “He set great store by Lionel; we both did,” and for a moment I had to stop and swallow hard before I could continue. The duchess patted my hand but did not interrupt. “It would be impossible for me to take Lionel’s place, or to cease reminding Father of his loss. It would be better for both of us if I went away.”

“And you must support yourself? You have no protector?”

“None.”

She regarded me in silence for a few minutes, with no trace of the frivolity she had shown until now. For the first time her bearing seemed more that of a duchess than a belle. Her expression was pensive, with a kind of understanding that suggested decades more experience than I possessed; the butterfly of a moment before, who gave the impression of having known no greater sorrow than a torn petticoat, had given way to a woman of dignity and perception. The metamorphosis was disconcerting: which was the true duchess? And was I safe to trust so chameleon-like a creature?

She was watching me with a scrutiny so keen that I dropped my eyes to my hands, fearing she would guess my thoughts. At that moment I could have believed that she had the power to read my mind.

“I think I understand,” she said finally, and again I was surprised at the gravity of her tone. “You find it impossible to remain under your father’s guardianship, and you are unwilling or unable to benefit from his money or connections. You are prepared to work at the lowest occupation available to a gentlewoman, and are forced to seek a position from a distant relative who is essentially a stranger to you—as well as a figure of some notoriety.” Light but implacable fingers tipped my chin up so that I was forced to meet her eyes. “I suspect you have told me something less than the truth,” she said gently. “While loyalty is a commendable quality, if you ever wish to tell me the full story, you will not find me unsympathetic.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I whispered, guilt and hope mingling in me. Releasing my chin, she rose with something of her former energy and swept over to a tiny desk.

“Well, there is only one thing to be done. At the end of the week when we return to Ellsmere, you will accompany us.” She wrote a few lines on one of her calling cards and held it out to me. Uncomprehending, I took it. “Show this at the railway station and one of the attendants will take you to my car. Our train leaves on Friday at eleven. I trust you can be ready to depart by then?”

Stunned as much by this unexpected efficiency as by its import, I stammered, “Yes, of course. But—excuse me, ma’am—have you thought of a position for me? Do you wish for me to tutor His Grace?”

She flung back her head and gave a peal of laughter. “Oh, gracious, my dear, I hardly think so. His Grace the duke is full twenty years old.”

“I beg your pardon.” I could feel myself blushing, and the duchess, immediately repentant, came gliding back to the sofa to catch my hands.

“My dear, I did not mean to laugh at you. But I cannot bear to think of you fretting about a position. You’ll come to Ellsmere with us, and leave your future to me. I assure you, you shall not be forced to eke out an existence by drilling geography and history into a litter of spoiled children. We can do better for you than that!” Laughing, she drew me to my feet, and I found myself smiling. “There, that is better,” she said approvingly. “Put yourself in my hands, and have no fear for the future.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” It was foolishly inadequate, but she did not seem to mind.

“Until Friday, then. Shall I send a carriage to your house?”

I stopped short. “Oh, please no—I’d much rather my father didn’t know where I’ll be.” He probably had little interest in my whereabouts, in any case, but I felt obscurely safer knowing that I would be out of his reach. “In fact, ma’am, if you don’t mind, I would be glad if we could keep what I’ve said between us.”

To my astonishment, she put her arms around me and embraced me before I realized what she was about. Her eyes were very solemn when she drew back to look at me. “You poor child, of course,” she exclaimed. “I shall tell Claude and the boys merely that I was lucky enough to encounter you in town and invited you to stay with us. That is all they need know.”

Awkwardly, I attempted once more to express my gratitude, but before I had gotten half a dozen words out, Eliza the maid appeared with my wrap. I had not even noticed when the duchess had rung for her.

“Goodbye, my dear,” she said. “Or, rather, farewell, as we shall meet soon again!”

In moments I was running through the drizzle to the hansom Eliza had called for me. Settling into the unaccustomed luxury of the cushions, I gazed out the window at the receding view of the duchess’s house, with all the ride home in which to go over in my mind the events of that unusual morning.

* * *

As I had expected, Father showed no curiosity about my plans. He had formally ended our relationship; thus, whatever I did with myself would be of no interest to him, since it could not possibly affect him. I was glad of his lack of interest. It convinced me, if I had needed convincing, that we would both be happier freed of our obligations to each other, and it allowed me to pack and prepare for my journey unencumbered by the necessity of inventing a story for his benefit.

“I have observed that you are already making preparations to leave,” he commented one evening at supper. “I trust you will recall that the furnishings and decorations in your room are all my property, and I will treat any attempt to remove them from the house as theft.”

Since the decorations in question were a mildewed sampler I had stitched at age eight and a dreary mezzotint entitled “Waifs of the Storm,” I could assure Father with perfect truth that I had no intention of trying to abscond with them. I had little enough to pack: my few dresses, my sewing things, and my books. I would have liked to have had Lionel’s Latin and Greek texts, which had always been more mine than his, but Father had disposed of them along with most of his possessions. The only mementos I had of my brother were a brooch with his hair, a miniature portrait of him at eighteen years old, and the copy of
Varney, the Vampyre; or, the Feast of Blood
he had pressed on me before he left (he had always enjoyed sensation fiction).

But, however scanty these souvenirs might be, they were more than I had with which to remember my mother. I had never asked my father for any of her possessions; I didn’t even know if he had kept anything belonging to her. As I ate in my usual silence it began to seem unsupportable to leave my father’s house forever without taking from it something of my mother. Even if it was only a tidbit of knowledge of her—the name of a song she had sung to me, her favorite author, the way she had dressed her hair—I could not go away empty-handed.

“Father,” I said, and it was so unusual for me to address him that he put down his fork to narrow his eyes at me, “I have never asked you this before, but as I am leaving in two days’ time and will trouble you no more, I must ask you now: what happened to Mother’s belongings after she died?”

He regarded me for a moment, then resumed chewing. He swallowed, took a sip of claret, and said, “I burnt them.”

The ruthlessness of it momentarily robbed me of breath.

“Why?”

“What a ridiculous question. Why does a man whose wife has just died do anything? I should scarcely be held accountable for my actions at such a time.” Calmly he speared another bite of mutton.

“But there must have been things you would have kept. Her letters, her jewelry—”

“Ha, jewelry!” He smiled wryly. “The true nature of your interest emerges. You’re greedy for whatever fine jewels and valuables she may have left.”

I could not even find any anger in me to greet this accusation. “Very well, I can understand that it would be painful for you to be reminded of her. But surely you would not have destroyed a portrait.”

“Who said there was a portrait?”

“There must have been one, if—” I had started to say, if she had been the stepsister of a duchess, surely she would have been painted, but I did not wish to reveal my new knowledge. Instead I said, “When you married, I would have expected you to want a portrait of your wife. Any bridegroom would.”

He chuckled as he poured himself more claret. “And what would you know about bridegrooms, girl? That’s a subject you’ll never have any experience in.”

“Yes, Father,” I said, falling back on the established formula.

Perhaps it was the wine, or the knowledge that I would be leaving in two days, but for whatever reason he seemed to be in a fairly benign mood. Instead of letting the subject die, as I expected him to, he said after a moment, “Yes, there was a portrait.”

“Was?” My heart lurched. “You didn’t burn it, too?”

A slow smile spread across his face, and he gazed almost dreamily at his glass of claret, turning it so that the gaslight glinted off the faceted crystal and set the wine glowing like a drowned flame. “No. I did not burn it.”

He was enjoying himself, drawing this out deliberately to keep me in suspense, but I had to ask the question he was waiting to hear. “Where is it, then? May I see it?”

Another long, deliberate pause, and he slowly tipped the last of his wine down his throat. Then, setting the glass on the table, he pushed back his chair and stood. Swiftly, I stood as well, and he rang for Molly to clear.

“Yes,” he said. “I think you may see it. Since, as you say, you will be leaving soon, it is right that you should look on your mother’s face before you go.”

Scarcely daring to breathe for fear he would change his mind, so unexpected was his agreeable, accommodating mood, I followed him out of the dining room to the stairs. He paused to get an oil lamp, and then we began our ascent.

I followed him all the way to the top of the house, to a low narrow door I had never opened. The key Father used was rusty, the lock stiff, and when the door finally opened with a jerk we were greeted with a rising cloud of dust. When it settled, the lamp cast a warm glow on a jumble of disorder: broken chairs, crumbling sheaves of paper, boxes, trunks, crates. Everything was furred heavily with dust so that it blended into a dun-colored mass, and as we moved into the attic, squeaks and scrabbling sounds preceded us. Spiders had made free of the place; generations of webs draped the rafters, and Father, in front of me, had to brush them aside to move forward. The condition of the attic dispelled any notion I might have had that Father made sentimental pilgrimages to visit his dead wife’s portrait, and I wondered why he had not stored it in a place where it would be safe from vermin and decay.