Sea of Secrets: A Novel of Victorian Romantic Suspense

by DeWees, Amanda

  At last she saw something in my face that stopped her in the midst of her ecstasy of planning. “What is it, dear?” she inquired in concern. “You don’t look happy. Are you shy about a large wedding? Or is the lace not to your taste? We can change it for something else, you know.”

  “The lace is beautiful,” I said desperately. “And much too fine for me. But, ma’am, I’m far from certain Herron wants to marry me.” I did not add that I myself had not thought of marriage. It was such an enormous step, when our love was still so new and there was so much we had not yet learned about each other. My mind reeled at the suddenness of the idea.

  The duchess cocked her head on one side and regarded me with something approaching seriousness. “Herron not want to marry you! Why, you’re not in earnest about his not having spoken?”

  At last I was making progress. “I assure you, he has not spoken. Nor has he indicated that he means to.”

  She shook her head so vigorously that her new earrings blurred. “Now, listen to me, child,” she commanded. “I am not a young woman, and I’ve had a certain amount of experience in these matters. Do you think me blind? Whenever I see the two of you together, it is perfectly obvious what your feelings are.” Her expression turned roguish. “But I need not describe them to you—a young woman in love! Suffice it to say that it is clear even to an observer that there is a powerful attraction between the two of you.”

  That I could not deny; but “Is that what a marriage should consist of?” I could not help asking.

  A reminiscent smile touched her lips, and her eyes took on a faraway look. “In part, my dear, most assuredly.” She glanced back at me, and laughed at my expression. “How astonished you look! Well, no doubt mine is not the conventional view. But in the experience of someone who has been twice a bride, a marriage cannot be built solely on mutual respect and affection. To be sure, those qualities must be present; a marriage without them would be a crime and a travesty. Something more is essential, though: a truly passionate attachment. Without that, all the respect and admiration in the world are but hollow consolation.” Her voice had grown pensive, distant. “When you shudder every time your husband takes you in his arms, there is no true marriage.”

  There was a long silence. She was once again regarding something only she could see; as she had done once before, she seemed to have forgotten my presence. Was she recalling her first husband? It had already become plain to me that she had found something in her new marriage that had been lacking in the previous one. I knew something of the late duke’s austerity, his forbidding demeanor; now I knew, or guessed, how difficult it might be to be married to such a man. To be forced to acquiesce to his kisses, his embraces… I shivered, and the duchess seemed to come to herself.

  “Forgive me,” she apologized. “I had not meant to lecture. I only meant to say that I am glad—so glad—that there is no difficulty between you and Herron in that area.” She tweaked my chin playfully. “I am certain the two of you will be vastly happy as man and wife—and as mother and father.”

  “Good heavens,” I said faintly, confronted with yet another startling new idea, and the duchess laughed again.

  “I’ve shocked you, have I? Perhaps I spoke too freely. But I want to see you happy, my dear, and if someone had only spoken as frankly to me… well, no matter.”

  “I appreciate your interest, ma’am,” I said, not at all certain that I did. “I do hope, though, that you won’t try to, er, hurry the matter along.”

  “I promise I’ll not mention the subject again until you come to me and tell me that your engagement is to be announced.” She plucked the lace from my hair—I had forgotten it—and dropped the snowy folds back into their box. “In the meantime, show this to Herron if you like; and see if that will make him come to the point!”

  * * *

  I did not, I need hardly say, show the lace to Herron. The last thing he would have on his mind now was marriage; there was no room for it among the specters that thronged his thoughts. If this caused me a twinge of regret, I pushed it aside. Now was not the time to think of myself; his welfare should be my first concern.

  Later, though, when this whole unhappy business was over…

  I did not even see Herron again until dinner that night. After a day crammed with jollity, Christmas dinner was the crowning event, culminating in a flaming plum pudding as big as a coal scuttle. Afterward the festive mood continued in the drawing room, where a crowd gathered around the piano to sing to Felicity’s playing. Some of them, like Lord Claude, had been availing themselves freely of the wine, and their boisterous revelry finally drove me to seek refuge elsewhere. As much as I had enjoyed the day—and it had been the most delightful Christmas of my life—I was unused to so many people, and so hectic a level of celebration.

  I began to ease my way through the revelers to the door, but I did not see Herron among them. Doubtless he had already made his escape; little wonder if he had found the celebration grating.

  On the threshold of the drawing room I paused. Across the vast expanse of the entrance hall, a dim glow of firelight emanated from the morning room. As I came nearer I could hear low voices, and I found that a small group had wandered away from the main party to the seclusion of this room, where they had gathered around a table by the fire.

  I saw Miss Yates, and stout dignified Lady Van Horne, and several younger women. There were very few men in the party, but Aminta’s husband was one of them: he glanced up and gave a half-guilty start when he saw me.

  “Ah, a newcomer! Will you join us? We were just indulging in a little harmless entertainment. But, of course, if you don’t approve of these things…”

  From his words and manner I expected to find a card game in progress when I approached the table. But if this party was gambling, it was in no fashion I recognized. The table was completely bare except for little India’s alphabet blocks, which were laid out in a circle; two slips of paper bearing the words “yes” and “no,” at opposite points in the circle; and an upside-down wine glass. I looked to Miss Yates for elucidation.

  “We are trying to communicate with the spirit world,” she explained, with the same slightly apologetic air I had discerned in Lord Montrose. “Those who have departed this life have been known to send messages to the living by these means. And, of course, since it is Christmas…”

  “It seemed the perfect time,” finished one of the young ladies, who did not seem to be burdened with the embarrassment evinced by her elders. “Everyone always tells ghost stories at Christmas, so why not talk to the ghosts themselves? It is just the season for spooks.”

  “Oh, I see.” I knew of the growing popularity of séances, but I had never before seen an attempt to communicate with the dead. This would explain why no one had lit the gas; spirits would undoubtedly shy away from a brightly lit room. “Have you had any success?”

  “Indeed, yes.” Lady Van Horne nodded in majestic excitement, setting her necklaces chattering. “It has been quite gratifying. My first husband communicated a most affecting message. What was it he said, Wilkins?”

  I saw now that her maid sat beside her, with paper and pencil—for the purpose of taking dictation from those spirits disposed for conversation, evidently, for she adjusted her spectacles and read out in a flat voice: “‘Augusta I am here safe and happy do not grieve all is bliss no pain golden light we shall be reunited soon dearest love.’”

  “How touching.” Privately I thought I would find it grim to be informed of my approaching death, but Lady Van Horne was sighing in a rapture of sentiment. “Have you, er, received word from anyone else?”

  “Oh, yes,” Lady Van Horne hastened to inform me. “A number of friends and relations, and Miss Deveraux’s favorite cat—”

  “Struck by a carriage last summer, poor creature,” Miss Deveraux explained.

  “—and even a few figures from history. Although I did consider it to be in rather objectionable taste for Mr. Bonaparte to use such language.”

>   “After all, ma’am, he was a soldier,” Lord Montrose reminded her with a straight face. “Are you certain you won’t join us?” he asked me. “It’s quite a diverting way to pass an evening.”

  Miss Deveraux, with flushed cheeks and round grey eyes, confirmed this. “It’s positively thrilling. Those who have passed Beyond the Veil can see with greater clarity, you know; even into the future. They can tell you whom you will marry, and when, and where you will live; even how many children you will have.”

  “Do take a turn,” suggested Miss Yates. “I confess I am baffled as to how the thing works, but it has been answering all sorts of questions. Here, there’s room for you beside Miss Wilkins.”

  I wavered only a moment before taking the offered place at the table. I knew it was silly to expect to speak with the dead by means of a wine glass and a child’s building blocks, but the excitement was contagious; even the more skeptical members of the party, like Miss Yates and Lord Montrose, betrayed a guilty fascination in their manner. I drew my chair up so that I could place one finger on the glass, as the rest of them did.

  Lady Van Horne sent one of the gentlemen to shut the door, and the noisy cheer from across the hall was abruptly silenced. The crackling of the fire was now the only sound in the room. Gathered at our table, we seemed to huddle in a shrinking pool of firelight, while around us shadows fingered the walls. I felt my pulse quickening with the same anticipation I saw in the faces across the table from me, an anticipation tinged with a delicious hint of fear.

  “Now, you must concentrate,” Lady Van Horne commanded. Her voice was hushed. “Ask a question, and it will spell out the answer. Do not try to force it or push the glass; it will move of its own, in its own time.”

  Wary, a little self-conscious, I fixed my eyes on the wine glass. “Is anyone there?” I asked tentatively.

  For a few moments nothing happened. Then the glass, with all of us still touching the base, slid slowly across the table to rest beside the “yes” card.

  “Who are you?”

  Another pause, but the glass gradually picked up speed as it moved from letter to letter. A, F, R… “a friend,” whispered Miss Yates, drawn into the moment in spite of herself.

  I repressed a frown. The reply was too vague to inspire confidence. “Can you give me your name?”

  The wine glass seemed to waver for a moment, as if pulled in different directions, and finally swung over to rest beside “no.”

  “Very careful of his privacy, this fellow,” muttered Lord Montrose, grinning, and Lady Van Horne shot him a withering look.

  “You must not annoy it,” she said sternly. “If the spirit senses doubt, it will not answer at all. Skeptics interfere with its ability to communicate.” I had time to wonder how she had acquired her expertise before she turned back to me. “Ask it something about the future,” she instructed.

  I was certain now that my companions were merely pushing the glass. Most likely they were more interested in inventing amusing messages than in creating credentials for their fictitious informant. “Very well,” I said indifferently, and addressed myself again to the glass. “What lies ahead in the new year?” Surely that was a question the “spirits” would have no trouble answering.

  Nor did they. The goblet flew from one letter to the next without hesitation.

  “DANGER.”

  Startled, I asked, “What kind of danger?” This was not what I had expected.

  Again the glass darted across the circle, spelling out the answer. “DEATH.”

  “Heavens, how gruesome,” murmured one of the young ladies, to be promptly hissed into silence by the others.

  My certainty of a hoax began to falter. This was hardly the kind of message the others would devise. “Is there any way to escape this danger?” I asked, and the goblet, in evident agitation, raced around the table so rapidly we could scarcely keep our fingers in contact with it. Miss Wilkins’s pencil flew as she jotted down the letters.

  “WARN DEATH ALL AROUND FLY.”

  “Goodness, how laconic he is,” commented one woman, raising her lorgnette. “It could hardly cost him so great an effort to be a trifle more explicit.”

  “It seems clear enough to me,” said Lord Montrose. We were still speaking in hushed tones. “He wishes to warn us that death is all around us, and urges us to fly. Clearly a spirit who does not believe in wasting words, or ectoplasm, whichever applies.”

  “Unless he (or she) wishes us to warn someone else,” pointed out Miss Deveraux. “Is that what you want, spirit?”

  Later none of us could agree how it happened. The glass began to shudder under our fingertips, and I remember glancing around the circle of faces, searching for signs that someone was moving the glass deliberately. Somehow, while my eyes were not on it, the goblet must have been lifted off the table, for suddenly it fell with a crash, shivered to pieces.

  We dispersed rather hurriedly after that. It was growing late, and that made a convenient excuse for us to escape from the room, without having to admit to each other the cause of our haste. Even phlegmatic Lord Montrose cast a nervous glance over his shoulder as he swept India’s blocks off the table and into their box.

  In the hallway the party bade each other brief good nights without lingering. Evidently most of the house had already retired: the singing in the drawing room had dwindled to a duet between two young men, drunk as the lords they probably were, and the rest of my relatives had vanished. Lord Montrose caught up to me at the first floor landing.

  “I hope we don’t all dream of haunts after that message,” he said, with a laugh that seemed the slightest bit strained. “Aminta will scold me for having taken part in such fancies. Shall I see you to your room?”

  “Thank you, but that isn’t necessary. Good night.”

  “Good night.” As he strode away I thought I heard him muttering, “From ghoulies and ghosties and long-legged beasties…”

  When I gained the top floor I was relieved to see that there were still signs of human, as opposed to supernatural, activity. Most of the guests had brought valets or maids with them, and the rooms near mine were, many of them, housing these domestics. After that eerie session in the morning room, it was reassuring to see maids whisking down the hall to their rooms and to hear windows being opened and doors shut. Tonight I would not have welcomed my usual solitude.

  But it need not be solitude, I remembered, my footsteps quickening. Herron might have gone to my study to wait for me. Penitence seized me as I remembered how peevish I had been that morning, how I had selfishly resented him for casting a pall over my enjoyment of the day. I would not blame him if he was angry with me, but I hoped that, angry or not, he might still be waiting for me.

  He was. As soon as I opened the door I saw him, sound asleep in an armchair.

  Softly I shut the door behind me and stole up to him. His sleep was peaceful, with none of the restless twitches and mutterings that signaled one of his nightmares. His breathing was deep, and all the tension and anger had eased out of his face, leaving it as serene and vulnerable as a child’s. The sight squeezed my heart, and I leaned over to kiss him very gently. I would not wake him. He had little enough sleep, I suspected, given his nightly walks on the leads.

  Then a startling idea flashed into my mind, and I straightened. Since Herron would not be making his rounds tonight, why should I not take his place? Then he need not berate himself later for having missed a night, and, more importantly, I would have a chance to see for myself if his father’s ghost really did walk. If the company in the morning room had felt this to be a promising night for haunts, I should not let the occasion go to waste.

  Had it been any other night I honestly believe I would have recognized the folly of this plan. Even had I overcome my doubts about the existence of ghosts, I would have seen how foolish it was to expect one to appear more or less on demand—on the one night I took over Herron’s vigil. But that night my head was still clouded with thoughts of messages from beyond the gra
ve, and there seemed nothing strange about changing out of my dinner gown and donning my boots and black cloak to go seek a ghost.

  Pausing only to drape a blanket over Herron, I hastened down the hall to the stairs that led to the roof. Cold air seeped down through the stairwell, and when I reached the landing I pulled the hood of my cloak up before opening the door.

  All the same, the chill and the darkness came as a shock. I stood in the lee of the tower to wait for eyes and body to adjust, berating myself for not having brought a light. The roof was almost as exposed as a mountain top, and as completely desolate. The shrill whistle of the wind around the chimneys seemed to mock me, and I was increasingly aware that I did not want to be abroad tonight, at this season of haunts. With longing I thought of my warm room and down-filled coverlet. Perhaps I would only walk once around the roof and go to bed.

  I was still nerving myself to step away from the comparative shelter of the tower when something disturbed me. I have never known what it was—a faint sound, or a wisp of motion in the corner of my vision—but for a moment I caught a sense of another presence. I took a step forward in search of the cause, and as I moved a stunning weight glanced my shoulder, sending me staggering.

  Gasping, I looked around to find what had struck me. Almost invisible at the base of the tower lay a massive piece of pale stone, roughly square; not a rock, but something cut by a mason. The same stone from which the tower was built. I gazed up at its faint silhouette against the sky, but all was still: if something had dislodged the stone, there was no sign of it.

  Ellsmere is an old house, I told myself; mortar disintegrates, and stones come loose from their moorings. But if I had not moved in the very instant it had fallen…

  My shoulder was beginning to throb. I darted back to the door, wrenched it open, and plunged down the steps toward my room, and safety. “Fly,” the message had urged. Perhaps the very house itself was repeating the warning.