That he persisted in cherishing hatred toward his uncle was soon made amply plain—not only to me, but to the entire household.
“No music tonight,” commanded the duchess, perhaps a week after that dramatic scene in the drawing room. “I won’t have everyone wearying of dancing before the night of the ball. Tonight we shall have tableaus instead.” An excited murmur rippled through the room; evidently this was a popular pastime. “I give you an hour in which to choose your confederates, decide upon a scene to enact, and make your preparations. Jenkins and Mrs. Appley” (this was the housekeeper) “will be happy to assist you in locating whatever properties and costumes you need. In one hour, then!”
The company surged into activity, as groups formed and began to pick over ideas for scenes to enact. Charles and Aminta immediately seized upon me. “You must be in our tableau,” Aminta decreed. “I’ve had such a clever idea, although Charles thinks it silly. Where is Felicity? We’ll need her as well.”
“She seems to have been claimed already,” said Charles, and there was a note in his voice that made us turn and look in the direction in which he was staring. It was Herron who had drawn Felicity apart, and as I watched he also extracted grave Lord Pettifer from the crowd.
“I had no idea Herron would be interested in joining in,” said Aminta, with the same puzzled tone as Charles. “I wonder what he can be up to.”
Neither Charles nor I challenged the assumption that he was “up to” something. Herron had made it plain that he wanted no part of the festivities up to this point, persisting in observing mourning for his father. Indeed, he had been conspicuous every evening for his gloomy demeanor and his habit of sitting apart to watch the merrymaking with a cynical eye. I wondered if the others shared my misgivings at this sudden participation in the revelry.
I had no time to ponder the matter further, however, since we had to prepare for our tableau. Aminta’s idea was that we should portray the judgment of Paris; since we had lost Felicity, we whistled for Zeus and cast him as the third goddess. “Venus, of course,” Charles proclaimed, and found some yellow crepe hair to provide the spaniel with alluring golden locks.
Because of Zeus, the company had some difficulty in identifying our tableau when at last our turn came; Lord Montrose, still wearing his costume of Henry II from the scene in which he had taken part, did at least guess that our scene was taken from classical mythology: he declared that we represented Orestes being pursued by the Furies. But he may only have meant to tease his wife.
After the duchess and Lord Claude had guessed the correct answer and we had resumed our places among the audience, Herron and his group took their turn. One end of the drawing room was serving as the improvised stage, with chairs for the non-participants ranked at the other end. Footmen had brought in folding screens to mask the preparations from our view, and I wondered with some trepidation what would be revealed when the screens were put aside. Aminta leaned over and whispered, “Do you know what Herron plans to do?” and I shook my head.
“I know no more than you.”
In the event, we did not have to wait long. In a very few minutes the footmen were beckoned to remove the screens, and the murmur of speculation died away in expectancy.
The lights had been dimmed for effect, but the tableau seemed to leap out at us: Herron, crouching grotesquely and wearing a padded hump on one shoulder, was instantly recognizable as that paragon of villainy, Richard III. He was eerily convincing with his face distorted in an evil leer, one arm drawn up like a broken wing, as if withered. His gold velvet costume suggested medieval garb, although I was puzzled by the false beard he wore; had not Richard been clean-shaven? He bent over the apparently dead body of Lord Pettifer, who lay covered in a black pall, his hands folded on his breast. Light glinted off a saber in Herron’s good hand, and he slowly and deliberately wiped the blade on the funeral drapings, as if cleaning it of blood.
I knotted my brow, wondering what episode from Richard’s checkered career this represented. This could not be the murder of the little princes in the tower; but who?
Then Felicity entered, clad in mourning and pantomiming tears, to fling herself upon Lord Pettifer. Evidently she was his grieving widow. At the sight of Herron she started back with an expression of loathing, but he silently urged her to stay, kneeling and offering her the sword. He held it out to her hilt first across the corpse, with an ingratiating smirk; she seemed to shrink away, yet hesitated, half fascinated by him in spite of the hatred she should be feeling.
For I knew now what this scene was, and from the way others were nodding, I saw that they had recognized it as well. Herron had chosen to portray Richard at the moment when he wooed his future wife over the body of her husband, whom he had killed.
Sure enough, Felicity seized the sword and made as if to stab the murderer with it; but as Herron continued to pantomime devotion, she weakened, and the sword slipped from her fingers. Her final submission was sealed when Herron placed a ring on her finger.
I saw Aminta and her husband exchange glances. Herron’s lack of delicacy in choosing this subject was glaring—his own mother was so recently a widow, after all—and then the connection broke upon me like a cloudburst.
I saw now why he had donned a beard for clean-shaven Richard: to heighten the resemblance to his uncle. In just the same manner he had chosen Felicity for her likeness to his mother. She had even dressed in the violet mourning gown the duchess had passed on to me after wearing it so briefly. And Herron’s velvet doublet, I realized dully, was actually Lord Claude’s mustard smoking jacket. Even Lord Pettifer had been carefully selected—for his magnificent long beard, so reminiscent of the late duke’s.
Herron had taken pains to make his implication clear, and a shocked murmur in the room showed that the similarities were not lost on the rest of the company.
“Good Lord,” I heard Charles say. “What does he think he’s doing?”
I was beginning to think I knew, but it was almost too awful to believe. My eyes sought the place where Lord Claude and the duchess sat, close to the “stage.” From where I watched I could not see their faces, but I could see Lord Claude’s hand, gripping the arm of his chair. The knuckles had gone white.
No one had spoken aloud; even for those who had not grasped Herron’s implicit accusation, the scene was so tasteless a choice under the circumstances that the company was too embarrassed to recognize it. Awkwardly, the guests fidgeted, none wishing to speak, all wishing for an end to the predicament.
It was plain by now that no one was going to call out the name of the tableau. Slowly Herron broke his frozen stance, his head turning to sweep a long look around the room, as his teeth bared in a feral grin.
“What, are you all struck dumb?” he mocked. “Surely there is one here, at least, who sees something he recognizes?”
He was looking straight at his uncle. But it was not Lord Claude who rose to the bait; with a movement so sudden it toppled her chair, the duchess stood.
“How dare you.” The words were so low I could scarcely hear them. Herron’s eyes widened in a parody of innocence accused.
“Why, mother, has something upset you?”
Her lips tightened, but she would not dignify the query with a reply. The only sound in the room was the angry snapping of her fan as she opened and shut it spasmodically. I could only guess what a struggle it was for her to restrain herself from expostulating with him in front of the guests.
Felicity was looking from one to the other in consternation. Clearly she had had no idea of the import of the tableau. “Is something the matter—?” she began hesitantly, and Lord Pettifer sat up to blink owlishly around him. Without his spectacles he too was at a loss as to what had happened.
“Evidently our tableau lacked conviction,” Herron said lightly. “I must say I thought we had presented quite an authentic depiction of the episode. But perhaps my mother means to offer a suggestion for improvement.”
Felicity stared at him, unc
omprehending. “Did I do something wrong, Aunt Gwendolyn? I did just as Herron told me to.”
The duchess seemed to come to herself. “Nothing is the matter, Felicity; you were lovely.” She turned her back on the three of them and faced the company with a bright artificial smile. “I’m certain everyone will agree that it would be impossible to find a successor to this last tableau,” she said easily. “In fact, I believe it would be pointless to compete with it. Shall we have some whist? Charles, Aminta, you know where the cards are. Now, gentlemen, if you’ll just help with these tables…”
I don’t know how she finessed it, but within five minutes the impromptu stage was dismantled and tables and chairs had been set up for card games. The audience had broken into small groups and were already dealing cards. Lord Claude had still said nothing, and when I looked around he was overseeing the rearrangement of the furniture. His smoking jacket lay crumpled on the carpet, and as I watched, he picked it up and tossed it onto a chair.
Herron had vanished.
Chapter Twelve
Felicity came running up to me as I stood looking for him. The truth must have dawned on her; she was wringing her hands, and tears were starting down her cheeks.
“I had no idea,” she cried, and I believed her. Felicity would not have imagined her cousin capable of such cruelty. “Oh, what must Aunt Gwendolyn think of me? I never would have imagined Herron would be so hateful. If I had known—but how could anyone play Old Crouchback as Papa! You must explain, cousin,” she pleaded. “Tell them that I never intended to hurt them.”
I took her hands to soothe her. “They know it,” I assured her. “I am sure they do not blame you. Go, change your dress. You can make your apologies later, in private, but your stepmother needs you now.”
She fled accordingly, and I was pleased to see her return in less than ten minutes wearing a social smile worthy of the duchess herself. As if nothing unusual had occurred, she set herself to play loo with Lady Van Horne. Had she dissolved into tears in the middle of the drawing room, the evening would have been wrecked past salvaging; as it was, she was able to help her aunt restore a sense of normality.
Lord Claude, too, was helping to reclaim the evening. Lines around his eyes showed strain, but he was perfectly composed; indeed, as he moved from group to group, making certain that glasses were filled, I could see the tension dissipate, and often his remarks, too low for me to hear, were met with laughter. I shook my head in admiration at this family. They were little short of magicians in the skillful way they could avert what promised to be social disaster. As I watched the card players, the duchess caught my eye and made a faint motion of her head that brought me to her side.
“I want to speak to Herron,” she said in an undertone, raising her fanned playing cards to screen her words from the other players. “Will you find him?”
I nodded.
“Good. I shall plead a headache in half an hour. I’ll expect him in my boudoir. Tell him so.”
It took me nearly my allotted time merely to locate Herron. I finally found him on the back terrace outside the long gallery. Inside, servants were already beginning to prepare the room for the ball, and there was a comfortable bustle of dust cloths and floor polish; outside that warmly lit room was a wilderness of cold, darkness, and icy wind. Herron, seeming oblivious to the gale, leaned over the balustrade, staring out to sea.
My breath emerged in smoky puffs as I told him of his mother’s command—for invitation it certainly was not. I could not prevent myself from voicing some of my own indignation as well.
“Whatever were you about, Herron?” I demanded, as we re-entered the house and started through the empty corridors. “That was tantamount to an accusation of your uncle, and before the entire county. Why would you perform such a foolish, hateful prank?”
He laughed shortly. I saw now that his face wore a hectic flush, more than the ruddy color whipped up by the wind; he looked as if he was taking a fever, and there was something in the too bright glitter of his eyes that made me wonder if he might be slightly delirious. “Did you see the expression on his face?” he demanded in turn. “Did you see him flinch? I could not have asked for more. Come, tell me you saw.”
“I was not close enough to see,” I said shortly. “What are you talking about? Do you mean to say you put on that entire display for the benefit of your uncle? I would not have thought you so vindictive.”
“Vindictive?” His surprise seemed genuine. “But this was your idea.”
It was my turn for surprise. “What can you mean?” I said blankly.
“You spoke of proof, remember? You told me of the way you tested him, of how you gauged his reaction for evidence of guilt. But I had to see for myself. So tonight I presented him with a performance of something like his own crime—and watched for his response.”
The reason for his fever finally penetrated, and I felt my stomach lurch in dread. “You cannot mean you saw proof of his guilt.”
The flash of his teeth in that wolfish grin answered me even before he spoke. “More convincing proof I can never hope for. His face, Ondine: you should have seen it. As if I had risen up out of the grave to accuse him.” He actually rubbed his hands together, for all the world like the stage villain he had played tonight. “I have never seen a man more horrified.”
“As well he might be! I am horrified myself. His own nephew—no, his own son now—has the breathtaking impudence to accuse him of fratricide. I would be appalled if someone I loved and trusted turned on me in such a manner. And before all his friends and relations, Herron! You have just maligned him in front of everyone whose respect he cherishes. How did you imagine that he would react to such an act on your part? I am amazed he did not horsewhip you.”
During this harangue my disapproval actually filtered through his euphoria, and he pulled up short to fix his eyes on me. “You aren’t convinced, then.”
The irrelevance made me fling up my hands in sheer frustration. “What does it matter whether I am convinced or not?” I exclaimed. “You are making it impossible for anyone around you to live in peace; why, you may be wrecking your mother’s happiness. More, you are placing yourself in a very tenuous position, Herron. Have you not thought of that?”
He waved dismissively and walked on. “Why should I care what they think of me? I had rather be anywhere else than here, watching the two of them fawn on each other, if it comes to that.”
“It well may,” I said grimly, and then we reached his mother’s door. “I’ve little doubt that she will speak to you even more roundly than I have.”
“Good.” His eyes narrowed, and a tight unpleasant smile appeared on his face, as if he relished the prospect before him. “It is time we had words, my mother and I.”
Even before we gained the duchess’s door we had heard voices raised in agitation. Felicity had evidently closely followed her aunt; I wondered irrelevantly if Aminta had been left to bear the mantle of hostess alone. Felicity’s voice sounded tearful in its protestations of regret; the duchess’s voice was lower, more grave and composed, but did not seem to be rejecting the apologies of the niece.
Herron did not wait for the voices to die down, but flung the door open and entered.
Silence fell as abruptly as a guillotine blade. After a night of tableaus, another one greeted us: the duchess was seated on the divan, still toying with her fan, and Felicity was huddled on the floor before her. When they looked up and saw Herron at the door, for a moment neither moved: the duchess’s carefully schooled expression did not change, but Felicity’s brows lowered in anger and indignation. She scrambled to her feet and flew to the door to confront Herron.
“Have you not caused enough of a disturbance this evening, cousin, that you must follow us here?”
“Ah, but I had no choice; I received a summons.”
At that, the duchess rose gracefully. “I asked him to come, Felicity; he is not trespassing here.”
“I see.” Felicity drew herself up and gathered
her dignity about her like a protective cloak. Her eyes were red, but they did not waver when she fixed them on Herron. “I hope you have come to apologize, Herron. It seems to me that you have used us very ill.”
His mouth quirked in a condescending smile, and he tousled her hair, unimpressed by her queenly manner. “Run along, little one,” he told her. “There’s no place for you here.”
She jerked angrily away from his hand, and the duchess’s voice, cool and distinct, cut off the hot remark rising to her lips.
“Put your mind at ease, Felicity; he will answer for what he has done. But that is not for you to enforce. I shall see you in the morning.”
It was both absolution and dismissal. Felicity made a stiff curtsey, shot Herron an injured look, and withdrew from the room. I made to follow her, but again the duchess’s voice came, stopping me before I had quite withdrawn.
“No; stay.” She moved closer to Herron, three deliberate paces. “I would like a witness.”
“As would I.” Herron’s gaze locked with hers. “If I am to be accused, I would like someone here to speak on my behalf.”
The duchess’s nostrils flared. “You showed no such tender concern for justice when you accused your stepfather in front of a jury of his peers. I could scarcely believe what I saw. That I have raised a son who would do such a thing! How could you insult your father in such a manner?”
He took a step toward her, closing the distance between them, so that she was forced to tip her head back to meet his eyes. “Mother, it is you who have insulted my father.”
I gasped as his meaning struck home, and the duchess too knew at once which father he referred to. Her voice lost, for the first time since I had known her, its careful control, rising until Herron flinched at its force.
“You dare—you have the audacity to suggest that I have smirched your late father’s memory?” He actually fell back a step as she advanced on him, her skirts rustling; even her garments seemed to be seething with anger. “I have nothing whatever to reproach myself with,” she flared. “While your father lived, I was his true and loyal wife, and I did not so much as open a window without thought of his welfare. But he is dead, Herron.” The words were clipped, relentless. “No amount of grieving can change that. My allegiance to him died with him, and I have only myself and my husband to answer to now.”
Sea of Secrets: A Novel of Victorian Romantic Suspense Page 18
