“Murder generally is, Ondine.”
Taking a guess, I ventured, “Is that why you took it? To see if it showed signs of violence?”
He hesitated. “No, not exactly. I was… curious.” So he had been the one to bring the thing here; not a warning, then, after all. “I wanted to see what we all look like in the end—if there’s anything to distinguish a good dead man from an evil one. And there’s not a bit of difference. It’s strange that there should be no remnant of personality left. The machine is always the same; the only difference is the use to which it’s put, and that dies with the man.”
“Greatness doesn’t die with the body, you know; things a man does in life can have powerful effects on those who come after.”
“Yes, of course. But the man himself, be he martyr or murderer, will look like all his fellows in a century’s time. Nothing he can do will change that; in the end we are all the same, a bare assemblage of bone. It makes all one’s efforts or enterprises seem quite futile.”
“Not quite that, surely. After all, the machine must be given to us for some purpose.” I sat on the carpet beside the hassock, where I could rest my head against his knee. After a moment I felt his hand alight on my hair, abstractedly. “Herron,” I said, “I’ve been thinking about all that you’ve told me, and I want to ask you something.”
“Hmm?” His thoughts had already moved far away from me. It might be difficult to make him contemplate the subject I had in mind, but I would rather fight distraction than broach the topic when he was in one of his moods of bitterness. I nerved myself and plunged in.
“Have you considered that your uncle may be innocent? I know, you are convinced of his guilt. But think, Herron—did he and your father ever have any harsh words? From what everyone says they seem to have been on perfectly amiable terms. Why would your uncle suddenly take it into his head to kill a loved brother? And what’s more,” I went on quickly, as he started to speak, “your uncle doesn’t show any signs of a guilty conscience. Surely if he were guilty of so monumental a crime his behavior would betray him. But speak of the duke before him and he’ll not show fear, only sorrow. That can’t be the way a murderer would react.” I paused for breath, half fearful of his reply.
He sprang off the ottoman and strode across the room, his face turned away from me. “And what of my father’s ghost?” he demanded. “Do you suggest that he was mistaken?”
“No,” I said more slowly. “Not that. I know you believe that your father’s spirit appeared in order to accuse him, but are you certain that was its object?” If indeed he had really appeared, but I could not suggest that I doubted the visitation he so clung to. “Could he not have appeared because”—I grasped after the logic of haunts, wishing I had more knowledge of these matters—“there is some other reason he cannot rest quietly? Perhaps his death was not murder after all; maybe he was troubled, or received word of some disaster that he could not face.”
He pulled up short in his pacing and stared at me as if I had gone mad. “You suggest he killed himself?” he exclaimed, with such incredulous scorn that I winced. “My father? That’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard.”
“You’ve toyed with the idea often enough,” I retorted. “Perhaps it’s hereditary. No, no, I don’t mean that, Herron. I’m sorry. All I meant to suggest was that your father may have had sorrows we know nothing about, and they may have driven him to do something extreme—even if it seems like an act that would not be in his character. Such things have happened.”
“But not to my father.” His face was still pinched with anger. “My father was not a weak man; he would have faced his troubles. He—” Herron broke off, realizing he was indicting himself, and for a few minutes neither of us spoke. Strain hung in the air like a fume. I had bungled badly, and done no good at all; worse than none. All I had accomplished was to anger and alienate him.
Suddenly he turned to me. “There is something to what you say, though. I can’t believe that my uncle was not involved, but what if he had an accomplice? Perhaps my uncle is not the only guilty party.”
I sagged against the ottoman under the weight of this awful idea. “But who could it be, Herron? Who would have any reason?”
He gave a bark of triumphant laughter. “My dearest mother, for one. She was quick enough to seize on her new husband; who’s to say she did not hasten the first on his way to oblivion?”
“Herron, stop it.” But unbidden came echoes of the refrain I had been hearing—the common feeling that the duchess’s first marriage had not been a joyful one, that the duke had been too old and austere for her. Her own refusal to follow mourning customs, her undeniably hasty second marriage. But—“your own mother? How can you think it? She may have faults, but I cannot believe her capable of such coldblooded disloyalty, far less murder.”
“Ah, but she would not have had to do the killing herself; she could have simply thought of the plan and made my uncle put it into execution. Heaven knows she has him twisted round her finger; he’d crawl on his belly over broken glass if she asked him to.” His face was flushed, his eyes bright with a ferocious excitement. Alarmed, I stood and took his arm.
“Herron, I don’t think you are quite yourself. Sit down; you’re overexcited.”
“Or perhaps it wasn’t mother, but Charles.” Shaking off my hand, he paced before the fire. I might not have spoken for all the good I was doing. “Yes, of course—we have only his word for it that he was too weak and frail to be abroad that day.”
“You can’t mean he was only pretending to be ill! Charles would never—and he was invalided home, he would have had to deceive surgeons, officers—”
“He could have made his way unseen into the woods, fired the shot, and crept back to the house so that his papa could ‘discover’ the body. What a perfect way to keep my uncle’s hands clean.” At my shocked exclamation he turned toward me. “Don’t you see? He’s killed before, in battle—ask him yourself. He’d have had no moral scruples about dispatching an unwanted uncle. Such a gentleman, our Charles: perfectly polite and considerate, but quite capable of putting a bullet through a man’s head.”
“How can you say such things? You’re speaking of your own cousin, Herron—of Charles, whom you’ve known all your life!” Nevertheless there was an alarming logic behind the suspicions, however farfetched; Charles would indeed have had practice at killing, and he was fond enough of his father to make such an alliance a possibility. And his interest in medicine could have taught him how to feign illness…
Then I came to my senses. Even on short acquaintance I knew him better than to harbor such an idea. “And he’d have nothing to gain from killing your father, Herron.”
This gave him pause.
“He could have done it out of loyalty to my uncle,” he suggested, but without conviction.
“Murder out of loyalty?” I shook my head. “Even filial devotion would not stretch to that, unless there were some other reason. He wouldn’t further any ends of his own by killing his uncle. And as for your mother, do you truly envision her plotting her own husband’s death? After more than twenty years of marriage? If she hated him enough to kill him, she would have done so years ago. And we know she did not hate him.”
He stood stock-still, his head bowed. “No,” he said at last. “Perhaps not. But if my uncle managed to persuade her, to seduce her into acquiescence…” His voice trailed off. Then he raised his head to look at me. “You’ve given me much to think about,” he said grimly. “Perhaps you’re right, and it isn’t as simple as I’d thought. I may have been wrong to think only of my uncle: there may be more than one murderer.”
Appalled, I watched as he strode to the desk and picked up the skull. He stared into the empty eye sockets as if they communicated something to him. “I’d better return this to Charles. He’ll be missing his friend.”
“You won’t say anything to him, will you? You’ll not make any rash accusations?”
His smile was as ghoulish as the sk
ull’s. “Of course not, Ondine. You underestimate me. I shall simply observe.”
That night sleep was a long time coming. Of late I had found it more and more difficult to sleep: I would lie awake for hours, my body stiff and tense, my mind whirling. The only way I could make myself drowsy was to imagine that I was floating on the sea, feeling the gentle motion of the waves as they buoyed me up, rocking me like a child in a cradle until at last sleep crept over me.
Chapter Ten
Christmas arrived with a clamor. All at once the placid tenor of the days gave way to a commotion of preparations, arrivals, and socializing.
Aminta and her husband, together with the children, their bonne, the valet, and the lady’s maid, arrived the day before. The real onslaught of guests would not arrive until after Christmas, but the rooms were already filling, and on Christmas Eve there were twenty of us at dinner. So that the family might have its own celebration apart from the general festivities, the duchess told us all to gather in her boudoir on Christmas morning to exchange gifts.
Any notion of a quiet, intimate celebration of the holiday was quickly routed by Freddy and India. Aminta’s children welcomed the advent of Father Christmas with shouts of glee, and even the normally placid Freddy grew mettlesome from sweetmeats, charging around the room and trying out his new toy drum. India tottered after on her short legs, waving wrapping paper like a banner.
“And I’ll have a few things to say to you for giving him that, of all things,” Aminta said under her breath to her father, the giver, but her shake of the head was tolerant under the fusillade of drumming. “Frederick, can you quiet him?”
“Here, old chap, that’s enough,” called Lord Montrose. “Time to call a halt. The troops can start up their march again after breakfast.” Aminta’s husband was a friendly, unpretentious man, with whom it was impossible to feel intimidated. He seemed cheerfully resigned to being neither handsome nor brilliant, and took undisguised delight in the exploits of his children. When we had first met, he had been crawling on the drawing room rug, with little India on his back. “Her Highness the Sultana of Arabia desired a camel ride,” he had explained.
The impromptu parade was quelled and its participants soothed with scones and jam while the adults finished their breakfast and began exchanging gifts. Soon the duchess’s boudoir was awash in wrapping paper and ribbons, and everyone was laughing and exclaiming over their prizes.
This was my first experience of a real Christmas celebration, and I was a bit dazed by the conviviality, the happy uproar in which I was a welcome part; as well, I was dazzled by the generosity of the gifts. Christmas at my father’s house had been observed by a dinner to which Father invited his colleagues, my part in which was restricted to hearing the conversation that filtered up to me in my room. At Ellsmere, I was quickly included in the celebration, and the gifts heaped on me were touching testimony to my place among my new family.
Lord Claude in especial had been lavish in his gifts to us all. He had presented all the ladies with flat velvet boxes, which had disclosed pearl necklaces for Felicity and me, a garnet one for Aminta; the duchess, with much exclaiming, had opened her box to find a diamond-and-pearl parure: necklace, bracelets, earrings, brooch, even combs for her hair. Charles whistled appreciatively, and the rest of us murmured admiration as she held up the glittering pieces.
“Claude, you must have spent a fortune,” she chided, but her eyes were shining as she turned the necklace in her hands. “Dearest, you really mustn’t spoil me so.”
“Who else deserves it so richly?” he countered, and chuckled as she flung her arms around him.
“None of that, now,” Aminta admonished them. “Come, Aunt Gwendolyn, try them on and let’s see how they suit you.”
Flushed and wreathed in smiles, the duchess released her husband and let him fasten the necklace around her throat. With his assistance she had soon decked herself in all her new jewelry. She was wearing a morning dress of her favorite shade of pink, and the gems sparkled and glowed against their rosy background.
“Aunt Gwendolyn, you look like a princess in a fairy tale!” Felicity cried.
“Beauty and the Beast, perhaps,” muttered Herron, and we all turned to look at him.
My euphoria waned. The only thing that had kept me from completely enjoying myself that morning was my awareness of Herron, sitting apart where he could watch us all with aloof detachment. His wry asides had begun to fret my nerves, and I was both saddened and irritated by his tendency to scrutinize his relatives as if they were suspects. Judging from our conversation of a few nights ago, he was considering that very possibility, and it nettled me. Why could I not be left to enjoy the warmth and fellowship of this first holiday with my family without this constant shadow of condemnation?
“Herron, you haven’t opened your present,” said Lord Claude easily. “I’d like to see what you think; I confess I’m rather proud of it.”
“Yes, Herron, open it,” urged Felicity. “I for one am about to expire to see what’s in that enormous box.”
Charles laughed at her italics, but said, “She’s right, Herron. Put us out of our misery.”
“Gladly.” He bit the word out with venom, and I saw the other men exchange looks. With uncaring speed he stripped off the ribbon and bright paper, opened the box and hoisted out the present inside. It was a saddle. I knew nothing about such things, but it must have been a fine one: Lord Montrose and the duchess were warm in their approval, and even Herron’s hard expression seemed to soften.
“It’s beautiful,” he said, and if the tone was grudging, his uncle was generous enough to overlook it.
“I’m glad it pleases you, my boy. It looked just the thing for you. You’ve been riding so much lately, and… well, I only hope you like the rest of your present as well.”
“The rest of his present?” exclaimed the duchess, before Herron could. “Claude, you really are too extravagant. What on earth have you done?”
Lord Claude’s face split in a grin. “Have a look in the stables, and you’ll see soon enough.” He turned to Herron, who sat perfectly still. “I know how fond you are of old Zephyr, but he’s getting on in years, and when I found Caesar I couldn’t resist. He’s a spirited gelding, full of fire, and I know you like a mount with some dash to him. He’s all yours, Herron.”
Herron swallowed hard before he spoke. His parents’ eyes were on him expectantly as he seemed to search for words. Finally he looked up at his uncle, with something like uncertainty, or even shyness.
“Thank you,” he said at last. “It was good of you to think of me.” He stood, still holding the saddle. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to go down to the stables and see him.”
“Of course, darling,” said his mother, going to kiss him. “You go right along and do that. We understand.” Her words were mild enough, but as soon as the door shut behind her son she whirled around, hugging herself with joy. “Claude, I think he’s coming back to us at last. How brilliant of you!”
Her husband smiled in sympathy at her delight, but he did not seem inclined to share it. “Let us hope so, Gwendolyn; but it will take more than a new horse to win him over completely.”
He’s right, I thought: Herron won’t be brought back to the fold that easily. But I too had felt a lightening of my heart to see that instant of self-doubt and hesitant liking. Perhaps I had given up hope too quickly. Maybe yet Herron would come to see, as I did, what a kind and compassionate man his uncle was.
When all the gifts had been unwrapped and the breakfast spread reduced to crumbs and dregs, the family began to disperse: with much kissing and thanks the different members began to depart to go about their day. I had expected the duchess to have a great many things waiting to claim her attention, as hostess to an increasingly large house party, but when I started to leave she detained me. “Do stay a moment, dear. I would like your advice on a matter concerning the library.”
I agreed at once and hung back as she saw the others out. Whe
n she closed the door behind them and turned to me, she was smiling in a conspiratorial way.
“I must confess to a little deception,” she said, twinkling as if well pleased with herself. “There is no pressing matter I need to consult you about, but I had one more Christmas gift for you that I did not want you to open in front of the others.”
“But, ma’am, you’ve given me so much…”
Shushing me, she disappeared momentarily into her bedroom. When she reappeared she bore a large flat box covered in silver wrappings. “Now, sit down,” she ordered. “And open it.”
Unhappily, I took a seat on the divan, and she placed the package in my lap with a ceremonious air. When I had opened the box and brushed aside the covering tissue paper, I gasped. Inside the box was lace—yards of it, I saw, as the duchess held it up and draped it across my hands: heavy, hand-embroidered lace of exquisite workmanship, so fine that it could only be meant for one purpose.
“For your wedding veil,” she said, as I gazed at it dumbly. “I had it made in Belgium just for you. Isn’t it beautiful? Your dark hair will set it off perfectly.” She drew a fold of the lace over my head to gauge the effect, and gave a satisfied nod at what she saw. “Just as I thought—you look a vision! Oh, my dear girl, what a lovely bride you’ll make.”
“But I am not getting married,” I said, finding my tongue.
A peal of laughter greeted this. “Child, there’s no need to be secretive around me. Were you afraid I would disapprove? Why, I could not be happier that you will be my daughter-in-law! You are just the girl I would have chosen for him.”
“For whom?”
“For Herron, of course. You cannot deceive me; I know two people in love when I see them.”
I had the precarious feeling that matters were slipping out of my control. “Herron has not proposed to me,” I said, but she just patted my hand and went blithely on.
“Now, I have already told you, there’s no need to keep it from me. Sooner or later I’ll have to be told. The sooner the better, of course; there will be such an enormous amount of planning. Perhaps a June wedding? Or do you think a longer engagement? If you wish to marry soon, we can have the wedding at Ellsmere instead of in London…”
Sea of Secrets: A Novel of Victorian Romantic Suspense Page 15
