Sea of Secrets: A Novel of Victorian Romantic Suspense

by DeWees, Amanda

  I glanced around, struggling for breath in my tight stays, and saw that we were in his stepfather’s study. There was a low fire burning, left perhaps from Lord Claude’s sojourn here during preparations for the ball, and its dim red glow was the only light in the room. I could see Herron only indistinctly where he stood against the door, so I had no warning before he strode up to me and seized me by the shoulders.

  “What in heaven’s name were you thinking, getting tarted up like this?” he hissed, shaking me. “This is my mother’s work, dressing you up like a cheap copy of herself, rouged and powdered and curled like the Jezebel you are.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” I protested, shocked. “If the gown is too daring, I’ll go and change; but I am still the same as ever.”

  “Don’t try to lie to me. I see now what you are. To think that all this time I let myself believe you were as pure and true as you pretended to be, when underneath you’re just like all of them. Cheap, deceitful, treacherous—” He shook me again. His fingers bit painfully into my upper arms, and I struggled in alarm that was fast becoming something like fear. “And all of this tinsel and gilt, these pretty artifices, are just another lure for us. Paint the harlot with enough rouge and she’ll pass as a lily, is that what you believe?”

  I searched his face, wondering in panic how to soothe him; this man was a stranger to me, and in the dim light I could only be sure of the fury in his face. “Herron, I swear I never deceived you. I only wanted to look nice for the ball.”

  He gave a bark of laughter, a sound I had never heard from him before.

  “Only to display yourself to every man in the county, eh? Only to make a whore of yourself, make us want you, make us idiots with desire for you, for your body under ours, your skin, your mouth—” Without warning he ripped at my hair, pulling the careful ringlets into a tangle, and as I put up my hands to stop him, he seized the bodice of my gown and yanked it so fiercely that the hooks gave with a popping sound and it came away from my shoulders.

  “Herron, stop—”

  “So clever, aren’t you, with your plots and wiles.” Another vicious tug and my hoops fell with a muffled clank around my ankles. “Thinking you can cloud a man’s judgment, turn him into a lapdog, so you can tear out his heart and sell it to the highest bidder.” The gown followed, and Herron, cursing, flung it away, as I lost my balance and fell to the floor. He lunged after me, clawing at the hoops, flinging them after the dress. I squirmed backward, away from his hands, until my back was against one of the bookcases and I could go no further. He was crawling to me, two blazing spots of scarlet on his cheeks, his eyes bright with anger and purpose.

  The silence frightened me most. He was no longer cursing at me, and the only sound was our breathing, as we both panted with the exertion of pursuit and retreat. He seized one of my high-heeled slippers and screwed it off my foot, then the other. He sent them after the rest of my garments.

  Almost sobbing, I drew my knees up to my chest, trying to shield myself, but he held me by the ankle and fumbled up my leg, brushing aside my frantic efforts to push him away. The delicate silk of my stocking ripped, and he flicked it from his fingers like a cobweb before attacking the other.

  I was wearing only chemise, drawers, and corset now. Any moment his true nature would emerge and the mauling would cease. But evidently he meant to strip me of all artifice, because he pushed me around to grab the back of my corset and struggled with it. The whalebones bit sharply into my skin and I could not keep from crying out.

  But Mary’s lacing held firm. I could feel Herron’s rapid breath on the back of my neck and his hands tearing at the corset, his efforts shaking me about like a puppet, but I heard no rending of cloth. With an exclamation of wrath, he flung me away and staggered to his feet.

  I crouched gratefully where I fell, hoping he had done with me, but in a moment he was back. There was a blade shining in his hand, and in a sort of detachment I saw that it was a letter opener. The grim pressure on my ribs began to relax as he sawed at the laces, and the corset dropped away. Seizing my shoulders again, he forced me to sit up, my back once more braced against the shelves, so that we faced each other. When he brought his arm up, I thought for a moment he was actually going to strike me, and I flinched; instead, gripping my chin with his other hand, he dragged the sleeve of his evening coat across my mouth and cheeks until he was satisfied that I wore no rouge. Then he released me.

  I held my thin chemise against me with both hands, feeling the rapid thud of my heart. His face was inches away from mine. If he moved to strip me further I would kick out and claw. But surely he would not. “Herron,” I whispered; it was almost a prayer.

  It was quiet, so quiet. His breathing was uneven, and his eyes flicked restlessly over my face. But he did not attack my pitiful remaining garments. When his hands moved, it was to slide from my shoulders down my arms, slowly, almost caressingly, and his mouth came down on mine.

  I cannot call it a kiss. That animal embrace, hot and greedy, was nothing like the kisses we had shared before. He held me against the shelves, my head forced back while he sated himself on me. When he raised his head my lips were stinging, and I tasted blood. My skin burned where his hands had clenched me.

  Abruptly, he stood. We stared at each other for a long moment, and I did not recognize what I saw. Then he turned and strode away. The door to the hallway shut behind him with a faint sound, and I was alone.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I do not know how long I remained there. In the dim study, hunched against the book case, I stared at the door through which he had disappeared. My brain was so dulled with shock that I could not even put a form to what I thought or felt. Only some time after, there was a knock on the door, and I blinked and stared at it in renewed fear.

  It moved open a crack. “Oriel?” came a low voice. “Are you there?”

  I could not speak, but the door opened cautiously to reveal Charles. When he saw me he stifled an oath, stepped into the room, and shut the door swiftly and silently behind him. His eyes took in the clothes flung across the carpet and came back to rest on me. They were mirrors of the shock I felt.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked quietly. He did not move toward me.

  I shook my head.

  “Who did this to you?”

  “Nobody. I…” There was no possible explanation I could offer. I fell silent.

  His mouth tightened, and for a moment I saw an anger as implacable as that I had seen in Herron’s face, but it was not toward me. Then it was gone, and his voice was gentler even than before when he said, “Would you like me to ring for one of the maids to help you, or fetch Aunt Gwendolyn? She would certainly—”

  “No!” I pulled myself to my feet, one hand pressed to my chemise like some miserable Botticelli Venus. My voice was not quite steady, and I took a deep breath before trying to speak again. “I don’t want anyone to see me like this.”

  He nodded, politely moving his eyes to a space six inches to the right of my face. “In that case, may I help you to your room? I think we can repair your, er, disarray so that you can reach it without unwelcome attention.”

  I felt tears start at his kindness. The conventional phrases deferred to me and were a delicate indication that no matter what he felt at seeing me this way, he would still treat me with respect. His consideration was stronger even than pity—or disgust. My face burned with humiliation and I turned it away from him.

  “If you please,” I said, avoiding his gaze.

  And so we began a bizarre re-creation of my preparation for the ball. Now, instead of giggling, bright-eyed maids who dressed me and coiffed me, it was Charles who helped me step into my hoops, who lifted the gown over my head and hooked it up, who smoothed the crumpled skirts into something like their former glory. The stockings were ruined, and he hid them in a pocket, also concealing the useless corset under his evening coat. He rescued the discarded slippers and steadied me while I stepped into them. Finally he offered me his
handkerchief, without commenting on the state of my face.

  “You would make a very good lady’s maid,” I said, with an unsteady attempt at levity.

  He smiled, but it was a stiff imitation of his normal smile. “I’ll keep that in mind, should my medical ambitions come to nothing,” he said, matching my tone.

  When I was dressed again, the sash disguising the gap in my bodice left by the absence of corset, there remained the wreck of my hair to mend. I tried to gather it up into a coil, but my hands were shaking and I was forced to let it fall back around my shoulders.

  “If you’ll allow me?” said Charles. “I can’t hope to create something worthy of the Journal des Demoiselles, but I think I can provide a temporary solution.” Again he waited and did not move to touch me until I nodded and turned my back so that he could dress my hair. He seemed to realize how nervous I felt of being touched, and had been careful not to do so without my permission during this strange toilette.

  His hands on my hair were gentle as they smoothed and pinned, and so lulling was the touch that I felt almost calm when he had finished. He did not trouble me with questions or exclamations over my plight, nor did he voice any indignation or horror, and when I realized this later I was grateful for his silence. I was not in any fit state to contend with such a conversation.

  When Charles seemed satisfied with his repairs, he opened the hall door a cautious crack and took a long look. Then he returned to me and offered his arm. “Lean on me if you need to.”

  I did not lean on him, but I was grateful of his arm all the same during that long strange walk to my room. Sounds of clinking china and voices raised gaily in the dining room told me that supper was still in progress, but to my great relief we encountered no one: I knew that in spite of his valiant efforts to repair my appearance, I must still look alarmingly disheveled. The ball seemed like something that had happened years ago, or something I had read in a novel, and I felt numb surprise at the realization that so little time had passed since Herron had dragged me from the dance floor.

  “You’d do well to ring for some tea and a hot-water bottle,” Charles said when we reached my door. “You’ve had a bad shock.” He stood with his back to the hall, shielding me from view should anyone happen by.

  “I don’t feel like seeing anyone. I’ll be fine.”

  The grimness was back in the set of his jaw.

  “I should like to know who has done this to you,” he said. “At the very least, he should be barred from the house.”

  If he hoped for my answer to give Herron away, he was disappointed. “He did nothing but frighten me,” I said steadily. “I was not harmed. There is no need for you to do anything; this is a matter that concerns only me and one other, and you have already done more than chivalry could require.” Even this brief speech had exhausted me, and I was conscious of a fierce headache drumming in my temples. My shoulders and arms throbbed where bruises were sure to emerge tomorrow. “I know that when I can think clearly I shall wish to thank you properly for your help.”

  “Don’t,” he said. “I am only sorry that help was necessary.”

  “Then if you would do one more thing for me?” I was beginning to shake in reaction, and I knew I could not hold together much longer.

  “Of course, Oriel.”

  “I would be glad if you would not speak of this.”

  He did not answer for so long that I thought he would refuse. Then he said, “I won’t promise to keep silent if I see the opportunity to exact some retribution for what you’ve suffered. But I will respect your wishes as much as I can.”

  It was more than I had hoped for. In some gesture toward normalcy I gave him my hand, which he held for a long moment. His eyes on my face, he seemed about to speak; then, releasing my hand, he turned silently and left.

  In my room, I locked the door and leaned against it to steady my trembling legs. When at last I straightened and turned away, I caught sight of myself in the mirror. I looked as wretched as I had feared. My face was bloodless, except for my swollen mouth, which in cruel contrast was voluptuously red, as if I indeed wore rouge. My eyes were enormous, sunken in their sockets, and angry pink streaks burnt on my cheeks. My bared shoulders and throat no longer looked alluring but thin and pathetic. Slowly, numbly, I began unhooking my dress.

  A quarter of an hour later, as I lay sleepless in bed, I heard a quiet knock at my door. My heart gave a thump of mingled apprehension and gladness: Herron, come to explain, apologize, comfort? When the knock was not repeated I crept to the door and put my eye to the keyhole.

  A tea tray lay on the floor. Behind it Charles stood, still in his evening dress, talking to one of the parlormaids. He must have been giving her orders, because she nodded, bobbed a curtsey, and took up a post in the chair he placed opposite my door. With this sentry in position, Charles left once again.

  I left the tray where it was and went back to bed. I lay waking far into the night, but Herron did not come.

  * * *

  The next thing I knew was a mercilessly cheerful voice saying, “Good morning, miss. I have your breakfast here.”

  Groggily I blinked and found that Jane had entered. Pearly grey light, the light of an overcast day, was shining through the windows. So I had slept after all.

  “Breakfast?” I said, drawing myself to a sitting position. Jane had placed the tray on the bedside table and was bustling about retrieving the discarded bits of finery from the night before. I winced at the memory they stirred.

  “Yes, Her Grace sent it up. She thought you might rather breakfast in your room today; many of the ladies are, after the late night.” She picked up the ball gown—would I ever be able to see it again without feeling sickened?—and clucked over the broken hooks. Absently, her mind taken up with the dress, she added, “There’s a note for you.”

  “What?” With one leap I was out of bed, snatching at the envelope that nestled inconspicuously against the toast rack. My hands were clumsy and it took me several tries to tear it open.

  “My dear girl—”

  My eyes dropped to the signature, and all my eagerness deserted me in a rush, leaving me hollow. I sat down on the edge of the bed and read it through, even though it had lost all interest for me.

  My dear girl, I hope you are improved this morning. Charles told us of the headache that forced you to retire early. It may speed your recovery to know that your presence at supper was sorely missed! Take today to rest, as many of the other girls will be doing the same, and send word if there is anything I can do for you.

  It was from the duchess, of course. So she did not know. Charles must have been very plausible; it seemed I owed him another debt of gratitude.

  “Is that all, Jane?” I could not stop myself from asking. “No one else sent a message?”

  “No, miss; no one.” My expression must have aroused her pity, because she inquired, “Would you like me to take a letter to anyone?”

  “No, thank you,” I said. A sense of injury told me it was not my duty to send the first word. It was for Herron to seek me out, to apologize, to explain why he had abused me in such a shocking fashion. “That will be all, Jane, except that I will take my lunch in my room today.”

  “Yes, miss.” Her arms full of sea-green satin, she curtseyed and let herself out.

  With a brief prayer of thanks for her unquestioning obedience, I retreated to my bed and dealt listlessly with toast and tea. I knew that I would not be able to face the rest of the company until I was forced to; dinner I could not miss without making some excuse, but at least I would not be subjected to the gantlet at luncheon. The bright chatter about the ball, the precise review of every detail, the debate over how many times Mr. X had danced with Miss Y—I could not endure that. And my father, with his uncanny talent for sniffing out my weak points, would guess that something had gone badly wrong between me and Herron; he had been making sly insinuations for days about the discord between us, and I knew that once he saw me he would not rest until he ha
d ferreted out the whole unhappy story. And then would come the taunting… I could not face it. Not until Herron had mended things.

  As the morning passed with no word from him, I began to wonder just how long Herron would be. In my self-imposed solitude I would pick up books, only to put them down after reading half a page, and drift back and forth through my two rooms. He was too ashamed to come to me, I consoled myself; remorse for his own behavior made him hesitant to approach me. Less consoling was the possibility that he had not exhausted his anger with me. I had seen how implacable his rage could be when it was directed toward others; was he going to continue to brood over his grievance against me?

  And what, if it came to that, was his grievance? After lunch I found my thoughts turning increasingly in this direction, as my desolation turned to indignation. What had I done to offend him except dress and act like the other girls? If wearing a lovely gown and dressing my hair with curling tongs were grounds for such an explosion, I would have liked to have been warned. To accuse me of wantonness, of artifice, of—what else had he hurled at me?—of participation in some feminine conspiracy! I wondered if Herron’s grief had festered in his mind to such an extent that he could no longer trust anyone, even me.

  But as the afternoon passed my anger shaded into sadness. Herron and I had shared so beautiful an accord, had loved each other so deeply. How could it have vanished? For my part, I still felt that painful, sweet pull on my heart at even the thought of him. I was forced to wonder now if he still felt that for me.

  By the time the daylight had started to fade I was growing restive. It was obvious that Herron was not going to seek me out; very well, I would seek him. I could not support any more doubts and uncertainties. We had to talk.

  Finding him, however, was a test of my endurance. Whenever I put my head into a room to look for him among those gathered, someone would hail me and try to draw me into a conversation about the ball. I detached myself as quickly as possible from these well-meaning inquisitors, and without questioning too blatantly I at last gathered that Herron had been seen at one of his favorite haunts, the cliffs.