Sea of Secrets: A Novel of Victorian Romantic Suspense

by DeWees, Amanda

  Chapter Eleven

  By next morning my left shoulder had bloomed in a magnificently hideous bruise. My day dresses hid it completely, but when I changed for dinner I had to put on a shawl to cover what the lower neckline revealed.

  In the light of day I had found it easy to dismiss my fear that the so-called spirit message had been a true warning. In fact, I had resolved not to mention the episode to anyone. My mishap on the roof was a result of no supernatural force but of simple ill luck, and I hoped it would go unnoticed.

  The duchess’s eyes were sharp, though.

  “My dear, why are you all bundled up?” she demanded in the drawing room after dinner. “Have you caught a chill?”

  “There seems to be a draft in the room,” I lied.

  “Well, come sit by the fire then, by all means. There’s no need to wrap yourself up like a Christmas present.” Before I could stop her she had twitched the shawl from my shoulders. She gasped. “Good heavens, child, what has happened to you?”

  I started to shrug in dismissal, then winced. “It’s nothing, ma’am. A loose stone from the tower—”

  “The tower! Where on earth were you?”

  “The roof,” I said unhappily. The other ladies were listening raptly. “Truly, ma’am, it isn’t worth troubling yourself over.”

  At this moment the door opened to admit the gentlemen from the smoking room. “Claude!” cried the duchess, sighting him. “Only see what has happened. We shall have to make some immediate repairs to the tower; this could have been a nasty accident.”

  “Why, what is it?” He, too, came to scrutinize my shoulder. I was beginning to feel like one of the exhibits at the Crystal Palace. “Good heavens, you must have that seen to. Jenkins, send for the doctor.”

  “Thank you, but there is no need,” I said firmly, pulling my shawl up around me; “I am quite well.” In truth, my shoulder was swollen and sore, but I wanted to put an end to the discussion.

  “How did it happen?” asked Charles, joining the ever-growing crowd.

  I restrained a sigh and repeated my story. The duchess turned to appeal to her husband.

  “We must have the tower repaired immediately. When I think of what could have happened, how near we came to disaster—the child could have been struck on the head, Claude! Or it could have been Herron up there on the roof, having stones fall on him. When I think of all the times my son has been at risk of this—!”

  Something hunted came into Lord Claude’s face. He had looked haggard all day, probably from last night’s overindulgence, and he recoiled under this barrage. “Now, Gwen, you’re exaggerating. Let’s not borrow trouble.”

  “But you told me!” she insisted, seizing his arm. “You told me that he walks on the leads every night, and why—”

  Herron erupted through the group to face them, and she fell silent. His eyes were blazing, and he clenched and unclenched his hands spasmodically. I felt a hollow dread at what was to come.

  “You knew?” he thundered at his mother. “How could you come to know such a thing?”

  “Why, Claude told me, dear,” she said, taken aback by his vehemence. “Surely you can’t object to his telling me?”

  With a wordless snarl Herron rounded on his uncle. “Yes, it would be you. Have you been creeping around in my footsteps, spying on me?”

  Lord Claude licked his lips nervously. “Of course not, Herron. Be sensible. Why would I—”

  “No, you’re right. You’d not follow me. You haven’t that much enterprise, have you? Who, then?”

  The guests were utterly still, trying to pretend they were elsewhere. Most had averted their eyes, but a few, like Miss Deveraux, were staring in fascination.

  “Herron, calm down,” said the duchess. “You’re making a spectacle of yourself. Why should anyone have followed you?”

  “It’s obvious that someone did. Who did you pay, uncle? Who is the flunkey you’ve bribed to report everything I do to you?”

  Lord Montrose made a shocked sound. “Come, Herron, this is beneath you.”

  “This is none of your affair, Montrose,” said Herron through his teeth, not even glancing in his direction, “so I’ll thank you to keep out of it.”

  It was not out of honor that I acted as I did, but from the simple fear that in another moment Herron would do violence to his uncle. He was breathing in quick spasms, poised on the balls of his feet as if about to launch himself at Lord Claude, and before I could change my mind I stood up. “It was I, Herron,” I said.

  He whirled toward me. “What?”

  “I am the one who told your uncle.”

  “You…” he choked. “You Judas.”

  For a long moment everything seemed to hang suspended as we stared at each other, Herron with damnation in his face, and everyone around us frozen. The shocked white faces of those around us were motionless as if drawn on paper. Charles’s hand had reached out almost imperceptibly as if to hold Herron back.

  Then the illusion vanished. In one swift movement Herron flung himself out of the room, and in his wake everything burst into motion: the duchess calling out as she started after him, Lord Claude catching at her and shaking his head, the women putting their heads together and making shocked clucking noises, the younger gentlemen sprinting to the door to see where Herron had gone.

  My knees buckled, and I sat down abruptly. Out of nowhere Aminta appeared and silently put an arm about my waist. She was holding a glass of sherry.

  “Drink it,” she said simply.

  I drank, coughed, drank again. The duchess was flitting around the room in an effort to restore normalcy, and it was a credit to her that she achieved it so quickly. At her bidding Miss Deveraux took a seat at the pianoforte. Sprightly music filled the air, putting an end to the scandalized murmur of conversation; and the guests, choosing tact over gossip, composed themselves to give their attention to the music. No doubt they would all dissect the incident later, but they would not insult their hostess by scrutinizing it further in her presence.

  “Are you all right?” asked Felicity, materializing at my elbow.

  I nodded. “I am not the one who received the worst blow.”

  “If that’s true, it is only in the metaphorical sense,” commented Charles. “That looks like a thoroughly nasty blow your shoulder took. Will you let me examine it?”

  “Really, Charles,” Aminta reproved him. “You should know better than to propose that. It’s hardly proper. Besides, can’t you see she’s upset? This is hardly the time to treat her as a laboratory specimen.”

  “I am doing no such thing. Has it not occurred to you that our cousin may be in some pain from her injury?”

  I rose, interrupting the exchange. “Excuse me,” I said. “I must speak to Herron.”

  They stared. “Don’t you think you should give him some time…?” Charles began.

  “I’m sorry, but I must go. I must find Herron.”

  “Oh, bother Herron,” I thought I heard Felicity say, but I was halfway across the room by then and paid no heed.

  He was not in the library or the morning room, where the seekers after supernatural knowledge were once again assembled. I ran upstairs and checked his rooms. Empty. Dismayed, I hovered on the landing, wondering where to look next.

  Far down the hall, an open door caught my eye; no light came from the chamber beyond, but the door stood ajar as if I was expected. I hurried down the corridor and looked inside the room.

  He had not even lit the gas, and the only light was the pale frosty moonlight that came through the uncurtained windows. He sat on the floor with his back against a window, so that the diffuse light formed a hazy aureole around his head; his face was in darkness, as it had been the first time I saw him. I stepped over the threshold. This must have been a music room at one time, for a shrouded harp hunched in the corner, but now it had been stripped bare in preparation for new furnishings. The light from the windows fell in gleaming bands across bare floorboards that echoed to my footsteps.


  He was slumped against the window with his head bowed, and when I moved toward him he only looked up for a moment before letting his chin drop back to his chest. I had expected rage, shouting, accusation; this silent apathy filled me with dismay and tenderness.

  “Herron,” I said softly. “I want to talk to you.”

  His shoulders moved in a shrug. “It seems futile to try to stop you from talking,” he said tonelessly, and I flinched at the jibe.

  “I can understand why you would feel that way. But if you’ll let me explain—”

  “What explanation can there be? You had a choice before you, and you made it. You chose to side with him against me. And all the time you led me to believe you were on my side.”

  “It isn’t a matter of taking sides, Herron. What I did, I did for you.” He said nothing, and, encouraged, I came nearer, until I knelt beside him; he made no effort to stop me. “We spoke of proof, do you remember? Of the need for something that would resolve your suspicions? Well, that is why I told him what I did. I broke your confidence, yes—and hated doing it—but it was in order to test him.”

  A pause, while he digested this. “How?”

  I explained the reasoning behind my ploy. “And he did not react as a guilty man would have, Herron. So you see, your fears were groundless. Your father’s death was not his doing.”

  He was silent for even longer this time, and then he raised his head to look at me. “Did you tell him anything else?”

  “Why—no.”

  “You hesitated. What else did you tell him? What other pieces of my soul did you sell?”

  I sprang up from my place beside him and put the width of the room between us. “I sold nothing,” I said, trying to keep my voice under control. “You have no right to suggest it.”

  He gave a guffaw. “I have no right! You are the turncoat here, not I. It was my trust that was betrayed.”

  “But I’ve told you why I—”

  “Or perhaps you didn’t set out to peddle my secrets after all,” he said consideringly. “He might have charmed them out of you, as you did with me. He’s as persuasive as Eden’s serpent when it suits his purpose. Poor Ondine! Trapped by your own snare.” His voice turned harsh. “I ask again, what else did you tell the murderer?”

  “Nothing else! Only—only that I feared for his safety.” I turned back toward him, holding out my hands in appeal. “That is all, I swear.”

  “That is quite a lot, for someone who professed to love me,” he jeered.

  “How can you doubt that? Oh, dearest…” In a moment I was beside him, reaching my arms around him, but he endured the embrace stiffly and without responding. “Herron, it is because I love you that I went to your uncle. I fear so much for you; I see how you brood over your grief and your suspicion, until they threaten to swallow up everything else in you. I am trying to save you from that, Herron. I can’t bear to see you destroyed by your distrust.”

  “And my uncle?” From his voice I sensed that he was softening, but not yet persuaded.

  I bit my lip. “I… Herron, I like him. I know what you believe of him, and I can even understand your resentment of him, but I had to warn him. My conscience would never let me rest if I had not.” This brought no reply at all; nervous, I rushed on. “It was as much for your sake as his, Herron: if he is on his guard, you will not have the opportunity to—to do him harm. I’ll not stand by and watch you become what you most revile. That much at least I can prevent.”

  “Do you really believe that I would kill him?” The question sounded almost wistful.

  “No,” I said, and in that moment I believed it. “But I didn’t want you to have to face the temptation.”

  I held my breath, the sound of my heartbeats measuring the moments of silence. At last he sighed, and in that one long sigh he seemed to expel all his lingering suspicion and anger.

  “I see,” he said. “I should not have mistrusted you.”

  In a moment I felt his arms creep around me. A gasp of pain escaped me as he clasped my injured shoulder, but it was quickly forgotten in the relief and joy that washed over me.

  “You can always trust in me, Herron. Always.”

  He did not reply, but secure in the circle of his arms I was comforted.

  * * *

  When, much later, I retired to my room, I found that someone had left me linen compresses and a basin of water that must have been hot in the recent past. On top of the neat stack of linen rested a jar of wicked-smelling ointment and a note: “For your shoulder. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive a loose-tongued old man.”

  I smiled at the gift, but of course Lord Claude did no less than he should to apologize for repeating what I had told him, as I had imagined, in confidence. With some difficulty, I unfastened the basque of my gown. How could Herron persist in believing the worst of his uncle? I wondered, as I made gingerly dabs with the once-hot water. He seemed determined to make him a villain, in the face of all evidence. Why, Lord Claude had been so sympathetic when I approached him…

  …So sympathetic that I had forgotten my mission halfway through our conversation in concern for his own welfare. The realization was like a slap in the face, and I stood gaping stupidly until I found out I was dripping cold water down my back. I wrung out the cloth and put it aside. My cheeks burned at the memory of how easily I had been distracted from my design to “test” him. How could I have become so muddled that I lost sight of my entire reason for seeking him out?

  But I already knew the answer. Unhappily, I remembered that caressing voice, the hypnotic tenderness. Herron had said it himself: his uncle was gifted with an almost uncanny power of persuasion. And I had fallen victim to it. I had let him make me his tool.

  I muffled a cry: “No!” It had not been like that. Lord Claude was not that sort of person. Why, look at the consideration he had shown in sending unguent for my wounded shoulder. It was one more proof of how compassionate he was.

  And how wise, pointed out a cool side of my brain, not to give me anything more valuable. Had he sent a gift of his usual extravagance, it would have looked as if I were indeed being paid for sharing my knowledge. But there would seem to be no dishonest motive behind the innocent proffering of medical supplies.

  “And there was none!” I snapped at the mirror. Why must I see a dark motive now behind his kindness? Why must a charming manner be the mask and symptom of a corrupt heart?

  Herron’s distrust was infecting me. That was what was the matter with me. He was so convinced of his uncle’s vicious character that he saw its blazon in every facet of the man, and his conviction had planted the distrust in me as well.

  Miserably, I pulled off my dress and threw myself into bed. All the contentment of my reconciliation with Herron was destroyed. It isn’t fair, I thought childishly. At last I find a wonderful family who loves me, and I cannot even be allowed to trust that love—to trust them! Against my will, against all my efforts I was being forced to choose a side. I was heartsore for Herron’s troubles, but why, why did they have to poison my life as well? Why must he drag me into his private vendetta?

  My last waking thought was a disloyal echo of Felicity: bother Herron.

  * * *

  Guests were arriving now in droves. Every day carriages deposited a steady influx of people, and the vast front hall was constantly thronging with servants carrying trunks and valises. More and more, conversation after dinner turned to the coming ball, which was to be the crowning event of the house party, and frequently the drawing room was the site of merry galops and waltzes for those who did not wish to wait until the great night.

  Charles was teaching me to waltz; he had regained his strength to such an extent that he scarcely ever carried his cane any more, and in the afternoons, when the drawing room was deserted—or in the morning room, where there was another pianoforte—we would seize Felicity or Aminta and make her play, while Charles practiced with me. Sometimes Felicity, who loved to dance but was not old enough to
attend balls, would partner me while Charles played for us, and we would as often as not end up convulsed with laughter in the confusion of deciding which of us was leading. Zeus added to the chaos by romping around our feet and barking his enthusiasm.

  Once Lord Claude came upon us during one such session, and he wheedled us into allowing him to join in: I found that Charles had spoken truth when he talked of his father’s fondness for dancing. Lord Claude was a nimble partner and an enthusiastic one, and deftly swept me around the room. I enjoyed dancing with him, but I did not enjoy the doubts that seized me whenever I saw him now. Herron’s suspicions had clouded my trust, however slightly, and I was never quite able to enjoy his uncle’s company without being needled by misgivings.

  Of Herron himself I saw little. At first I thought, with reason, that he was trying to avoid the onslaught of company, who would have accorded not at all with his desire for contemplation and solitude; later I realized that he was avoiding me as well. There were still evenings when he would seek me out in my study, but they grew more rare. He also ceased to confide in me. He spoke less and less of what was in his heart, although he brooded, if anything, even more. His silence frightened and depressed me. He was withdrawing from me, and I did not know how to fight it. He did not reject me, nothing so definite; but he was less giving of himself, more remote, and when he kissed me now it was without any emotion at all. In vain I urged him to tell me what I could do to make things right between us; when I spoke, now, he scarcely listened.

  This much I did know: he still harbored a gnawing distrust for his uncle. My test had not convinced him—had even, I suspected, inspired him with distrust for me as well. I could not help but think that this was the cause of his new reticence, his drawing away from me. Even though he had seemed to accept my explanation, his behavior toward me changed from that time forth. If the truth were told, I clung to this explanation for his coolness. I could not face the possibility that he simply no longer loved me.