Sea of Secrets: A Novel of Victorian Romantic Suspense (7 page)

“You need not look so anxious,” she added gently. “He knows nothing of your being with us, and he has said nothing to make me change my good opinion of you.”

“Oh,” I said. It was a great sigh of relief, as all the breath left my lungs, and I felt the tension ease out of my shoulders. “Why did he call, then, if not to ask about me?”

“I had a business matter to discuss with him; that is why I had left my card. Don’t fear, child; your father is not all-seeing, and he does not know we have met.”

I nodded, thankful but still far from easy in my mind. “Did he—did he say anything about me?”

She frowned and took the volume of Byron from me, wrapping it up again with the rest of the set. I thought she might be taking the time to choose her words, perhaps to avoid hurting me, but when she spoke she sounded so puzzled that I wondered if she was still trying to account to herself for their conversation.

“I asked after you, as if I had not seen you since your infancy,” she said slowly, “and he looked straight at me and said, ‘I must tell you that my daughter is dead to me. If Your Grace has no objection, I would prefer to speak of other subjects.’ Snubbed in my own drawing room, if you please! When I pressed him, he simply refused to say anything further.” She flung up her hands in exasperation, her jeweled rings twinkling. “I declare, the man has changed little in twenty years.”

I dropped my eyes to the carpet. “You must wonder what I have done to make him speak of me in such a fashion.”

“Oh, child, I believe I am a good enough judge of character to have no need of asking that,” she said gently. “Whatever rift there is between you cannot be rooted in anything you have done.”

Encouraged by these words, I dared to meet her eyes again, and saw only sympathy. “I would rather tell you how it came about, ma’am, than risk having you doubt me later,” I said.

“Of course, if you wish. I have told you I would be glad to listen.”

Awkwardly, conscious of the proximity of Felicity and her avowed interest in eavesdropping, I described as briefly as I could the events that had led to my parting from Father. The duchess listened attentively, without interrupting, but the sound of my own words in my ears was unconvincing. All too aware of the implausibility of my story, I stumbled and faltered. Why would she believe such an outlandish tale? I must sound spiteful as well as mendacious.

“I hope you can understand now why I wanted my whereabouts to be secret from him,” I said at last. “For the first time I feel free of him, of his disdain and disappointment. I know it seems unnatural in a daughter, unfilial—”

Miserably, I fell silent, biting my lips. I did not dare look at her again. In the silence the rumbling of the train pounded in my ears, and I waited in dread to hear what she would say.

Before she could speak, Felicity’s voice came gaily from across the carriage. “Aunt Gwendolyn, you must not be so secret with my cousin! Miss Yates and I want to know what you are saying. Come now, tell us what has absorbed you so.”

The duchess turned to them immediately, her usual warm smile supplanting whatever expression her face had worn an instant before. “Yes, we have been too exclusive, have we not? I cannot blame you for scolding. But if you will find the cards, dear, the four of us can have a game of speculation, and then we may all visit together.”

She moved toward the others, shepherding me with one light hand on my shoulder. She said nothing to me, but her hand gave a reassuring squeeze, and when I looked up I saw that her eyes, regarding me so gently, were full of tears.

Night had fallen when we reached Ellsmere, the early but consuming nightfall of autumn, so that my first view of the estate was no more than a clutch of fleeting impressions: a long stretch of woods giving way to parkland and a huge building of pale stone that almost glimmered in its own light, extending higher and broader than I could see, and studded with the warm sheets of light that were windows. Later, by day, I would see that the massive main wing was flanked by two others: the west, the oldest part of the house, which reared a crenellated tower, and the east, a newer addition, a mass of gables and balconies.

I was surprised and disappointed not to be able to hear the ocean, but I had little time in which to think about it. After the relative calm of our train journey, our arrival at Ellsmere was a pandemonium. As soon as our coach stopped we were met by a flood of servants, and the bustle of our arrival was evidently not the only urgent matter on their minds.

When the duchess had pieced together the cause for the general air of confusion and apprehension, she turned to me with a sigh. “My dear, I hope you will bear with us. The re-plastering of the guest rooms is not yet finished—why, I cannot fathom! I shall have to look into it later—and we must put you in Great-Aunt Agatha’s room this evening. It is a nuisance, but it is only for one night.”

“I have no objection, as long as Great-Aunt Agatha has none,” I said, winning one of the duchess’s trilling laughs.

“Great-Aunt Agatha has been dead these thirty years; I doubt she will be discommoded by your presence.”

“I would sooner risk disturbing a living relative than a dead one,” said Felicity, with a shiver of horror not unmixed with relish. “I hope for your sake she sleeps sound in the earth, cousin. She might choose to evict you.”

The duchess gave her a gentle frown. “That is scarcely hospitable, Felicity, to greet our cousin with tales of bogles and haunts. I myself have never heard that Great-Aunt Agatha makes a habit of revisiting her old quarters. She led a very contented life, as far as I know, and left no unfinished business behind but her embroidered altar cloth. No, my main concern is that you will be alone on the third floor. I hope you will not feel terribly isolated, my dear; I would not put you there if there were any other room fit for you to occupy.” She hesitated, a single worried crease appearing on her brow. “But we’ll find something better for you tomorrow.”

Even though it was on the top floor and had not been fitted with gas lighting, Great-aunt Agatha’s room was a quaint and comfortable chamber full of enormous, heavy furniture that had a reassuringly solid appearance. The hangings were rich but faded and fraying, and altogether I felt much more comfortable in this old and frankly shabby room than I would have in a more fashionable apartment fitted out in the fragile, eggshell-hued furnishings the duchess seemed to favor.

The duchess assured herself that I had fresh linen and hot water before leaving to make her own toilet for dinner. After shutting the door behind her and making a brief tour of my new living quarters, I took off my gown and had begun gratefully to wash the travel grime from my arms and face when there was a knock at the door. I gathered my dress to me and, uncertainly, called out a welcome.

The door opened on the startling sight of a heap of clothes. After the first moment of bewilderment, I saw that the heap was surmounted by two brown eyes and a smart white cap. This, I reasoned belatedly, must be Jane, come to fit me out for dinner.

“Good evening, miss,” said a voice from behind the mass of fabric. “The duchess has sent some things for you.”

“Thank you.” I felt awkward, never having had a personal maid before, and was unsure of what to say or how to behave. “Won’t you come in?”

She did so, moving briskly to place her burden on the bed, and I was able to observe her more fully. She was even smaller than I, although sturdier of build, and looked no more than fourteen. I later discovered that she was every day of twenty and married to one of the footmen, but in that first glimpse she looked too young to be out of the schoolroom.

For her part, as soon as she had laid out the gown and petticoats she had brought in, she turned to give me a look of appraisal even more frank than mine. My surprise and discomfort at this scrutiny were short-lived, though, as she said thoughtfully, “The gown should fit very well with a bit of taking in. You and Her Grace are much of a height. Shall I lace you up?”

To her credit, she did not so much as blink when I told her I did not wear stays. Fortunately the gown fitted me without them, although Jane had to pin starched ruffles to my chemise to fill out the bosom. It was a finer gown than any I had ever worn, although the dark purple color and modest décolletage, cut just below the collarbone, made it appropriate for mourning. It was trimmed only with braid of the same color, but the wide pagoda sleeves and full skirts, swelled by the layers of petticoats, gave it an unmistakably fashionable shape. The duchess must have had it made on the death of her husband, although she wore no mourning now. She could not have worn the gown more than a few times, and I marveled at the extravagance of purchasing a mourning wardrobe that would only be used for a few weeks.

It was awkward being dressed by another person, when I had dressed myself since I was old enough to fasten a button; even though Jane did not subject me to any more measuring looks, I was fiercely self-conscious, and clumsy at getting my arms into the sleeves. When she had hooked me up I breathed an inward sigh of relief, but the ordeal was not over: she had orders to dress my hair as well. Sitting at the dressing table as her hands worked nimbly over my head, I wondered if I would be able to accustom myself to these strange ministrations and cease feeling like an invalid unable to fend for herself, or a spoiled princess who could not be permitted to raise a finger on her own behalf.

In the end I had to appreciate Jane’s efforts, though. Instead of my usual braid, my hair had been coaxed into two shining wings that met in a graceful braided chignon at the back of my neck. The unexpected weight of it made me hold my head carefully, as if a governess had balanced a book on it, but the effect was undeniably attractive. The rich color of the borrowed dress suited me, as the duchess had predicted, and I felt my spirits rise. It was heartening that I would not have to meet the rest of my new family looking like a Quakeress.

I thanked Jane again, more warmly, and she accepted the thanks with a complacent curtsey, well aware of the feat she had wrought. I pinned on my mourning brooch, so bright with Lionel’s gold hair that it seemed too ornamental for mourning. Then I rose to join the others. Despite my new confidence in my appearance, I was aware of my heart beating emphatically beneath the borrowed finery as I followed Jane down stairs and passages to the drawing room where she said the family assembled before dinner.

When I entered I thought at first that Jane had led me to the wrong room, for there was no sign of the duchess or of Felicity. The only sounds were the ticking of a massive grandfather clock and the occasional crack and spit of the fire. Rich, restful shades of russet and bronze warmed the carpet, furniture, and draperies, and two massive, welcoming armchairs flanked the Adam fireplace. As I hovered just inside the doorway, wondering if I should call Jane back, a small brown and white spaniel lifted its head and offered an inquisitive woofle. At the sound, a man’s face appeared around the sheltering wing of one chair. Instantly it was followed by the rest of him.

“I beg your pardon; I didn’t hear you come in.” He used a cane to cross the room toward me, and this confirmed my conjecture as to his identity. “You were so quiet you might have been a ghost.” His smile was friendly and guileless, his voice surprisingly deep.

“I used to be called Mouse, because I am so quiet,” I said. It was probably not the best way to introduce myself, but without an intermediary to perform the introductions I felt uncertain and shy, and said the only words that came to me.

“Not a very flattering nickname,” he said easily, not seeming to find my reply strange. “Or even very appropriate. But perhaps it suited you better when you were a child.”

“Perhaps.” I was already regretting having mentioned it; I had never liked Lionel’s nickname for me, and now it was too painful a reminder of him. I stooped to pat the spaniel, who was investigating my skirts with a cold nose. “What is his name?”

“Zeus.” He met my eye and we laughed. “That was Felicity’s doing, not mine; I would have named him Candide, since he is such an optimist. He greets everyone as if they had a soup bone in their pocket.” He was watching with an indulgent smile as Zeus and I got acquainted, his hands folded on his stick. “If you’ll allow me to say so, you have improved greatly since our last meeting,” he said presently.

I straightened in surprise. “We have met?”

“Yes, indeed. You were crying as if your heart was broken, and I remember asking if I could stuff a piece of sponge cake in your mouth to silence you.” Seeing my confusion, he relented. “You were two weeks old,” he explained, the deep voice solemn although his eyes shone with mischief. “I would be greatly surprised if you remembered.”

“I am surprised you yourself remember,” I commented. “You must have been very young.”

“Oh, the incident is etched in my memory: my father scolded me so roundly for my lack of chivalry that my whole character was altered. Now I am a notorious pest for flinging my coat over puddles for ladies to walk on. May I offer you a seat? Father and Miss Yates should be down soon, but I am afraid we may have a long wait before Felicity and Aunt Gwendolyn join us.”

“Oh? Why?”

His eyebrows quirked in exasperation and amusement. “I thought perhaps you could tell me. I have often wondered why it takes them a full hour to change gowns. Doubtless it is a mystery best not inquired into.”

I took one of the armchairs by the hearth, and when I was seated he resumed his seat in the other. I noticed the way his knuckles whitened on the handle of his stick as he lowered himself into the chair, and scolded myself for having kept him standing; he must find it a strain to be on his feet for long, although he had said nothing.

Now that I met Felicity’s paragon in the flesh, I found that the reality bore little resemblance to the creature I had envisioned. This was no dandy with drooping moustaches and macassar oil in his hair. Charles was indisputably moustached, to be sure, but this adornment was neatly clipped, and his straw-colored hair innocent of pomade. He was tall, but his height was balanced by the breadth of his shoulders, so that he was nothing like the languid weed I had envisioned. The loose fit of his suit suggested that he had grown thinner from his illness, but he seemed utterly unconscious of being an invalid.