The Secret Pearl

by Mary Balogh

  THEY STOPPED FOR A MEAL THAT WAS NEITHER luncheon nor dinner, and continued on their way. There was a strange ease between them, the Duke of Ridgeway thought. Strange because they had traveled for several hours in near-silence and had eaten their meal without a great deal of conversation. Strange because they were alone together after all that had passed between them. There should have been an awkwardness, an embarrassment, but there was not.

  When they resumed their seats in the carriage and it drew out of the innyard onto the open road again, he took her hand in his and rested their clasped hands on the seat between them. She made no resistance. She curled her fingers around his hand.

  He wished that they had three hundred miles to travel, not thirty. Or three thousand.

  He could feel her eyes on him, but he did not turn his head. He wished, as he had wished at the start of their journey, that he had thought of sitting on the other side of her, his good profile facing her.

  “How did it happen?” she asked him quietly.

  “This?” he said, indicating his scar with his free hand. “I have very little memory of just what occurred. It was at the Battle of Waterloo, of course. I was with the infantry. We were in square, holding a cavalry charge at bay. But it was very frightening for some of the younger boys—and for all of us, I suppose—to see cavalry charging at us and to have only bayonets and the other men forming the square as a defense. It is a good defense, almost impregnable, in fact, but it does not feel safe. A few of our men panicked and turned away together. I leapt forward to try to hearten them and make sure that the square was not broken, and got caught on the face by a bayonet.”

  Fleur grimaced.

  “Not even an enemy’s,” he said, smiling. “Ironic, is it not? I believe I can recall the sharp pain and my hand coming away all red from my face. That is the last I remember. A shell must have hit at that moment and caused the other wounds.”

  “You were almost a year recovering,” she said. “You must have suffered a great deal.”

  “I believe so,” he said. “Mercifully, I seem to have been somewhat out of my head during the worst of it. It was hard, though, to adjust my mind to the knowledge that I would carry around the visible effects of what happened for the rest of my life.”

  “The wounds still hurt sometimes?” she said.

  “Not often.” He smiled at her again.

  “I have seen you limping,” she said.

  “When I am tired or under some stress,” he said. “That is when Sidney, my man, plays tyrant and orders me to submit myself to a massage. He has a most impertinent tongue and magic hands.”

  She smiled at him. “Why did you go?” she asked. “If you were a duke, it would have been most unusual for you to be a part of the army, especially as an infantry officer. Did you not have a happy childhood?”

  “Quite the contrary,” he said. “I was privileged and happy and sheltered. No human being is entitled to enjoy such a life without paying back a little. There were thousands of men fighting for our country who really owed it almost nothing except their birth. And yet to them it was worth fighting for. The least I could do was fight alongside them.”

  “Tell me about your childhood,” she said.

  He smiled. “That is a large question,” he said. “Do you want to hear about what a good little boy I was or about what a rogue I could be? Unfortunately, I sometimes drove my father to distraction. And the footmen. One poor fellow who lived in terror of ghosts and devils found two in the grand hall. Two named Adam and Thomas, who inhabited the gallery and made strange noises when he was on duty during the evenings. They haunted him for three whole weeks before they were finally caught. I can still feel the walloping I had for that. I believe I had to lie facedown on my bed for at least a couple of hours afterward.”

  She laughed.

  “It was a wonderful childhood,” he said. “We were Greek gods among the temples and Vikings on the lake and bear hunters by the cascades. Our father used to spend a great deal of time with us, teaching us to fish and to shoot and ride. My stepmother taught me how to play the pianoforte, though I do not have your talent. And she taught us to dance. There was always a great deal of laughter during those lessons. She used to accuse us both of having two left feet.”

  “And yet you dance so well now,” Fleur said.

  “I wish Pamela’s childhood could be as happy,” he said. “I wish there could have been other children. I always wanted a large family.”

  He realized what he had said when she looked inquiringly at him.

  “I will devote myself to her happiness when I go home,” he said. “I’ll stay with her. I’ll not leave her again.”

  He closed his eyes and braced one booted foot against the seat opposite. It was late afternoon. The drowsy hour.

  He had never voiced that dream before—the dream of sons of his own, and daughters too, running free at Willoughby, their shouts and laughter bringing the place alive again. It was not fair to Pamela that she be so alone.

  His children and Fleur’s. They would take them riding and picnicking and boating. And fishing too. He would teach Fleur to fish. And she would teach the children to play the pianoforte, and herself play for their entertainment some evenings. And together they would teach their children to dance. They would teach them to waltz.

  And he would love her by night. He would sleep with her all night and every night in the large canopied bed that had been his father’s before him and that had never held a woman since his father’s death. And he would fill her with his seed. He would watch her grow with his children. And he would watch those children being born and watch her giving birth to them.

  He had paid his dues for a life of incredible privilege and for a childhood of wonderful security. He would be happy again and happy forever. He would open the oyster shell and find the pearl within.

  He opened his eyes and became aware of his surroundings when her head touched his shoulder. She was breathing deeply and evenly. He turned his head very slowly so as not to wake her and rested his cheek against her soft curls. And he breathed in the scent of her. Their hands were still clasped together.

  He closed his eyes again.

  WROXFORD WAS NOT QUITE a town. It was a large village. Darkness had begun to fall when they arrived there, and the churchyard was quite large. It was altogether possible that they had just missed finding the correct tombstone in the half-light, the Duke of Ridgeway reassured her after they had searched without success. Or perhaps there was no tombstone yet. They should ask at the vicarage.

  But the vicar was from home, at the bedside of a sick parishioner, his wife explained. She had no knowledge of such a grave. There were Hobsons in the churchyard, yes, but the last to be buried there must be old Bessie Hobson, all of seven or eight years before. Certainly there had been none buried there in the past six months. There had been only one funeral in that time, and that had certainly not been a Hobson.

  “This man was valet to Lord Brocklehurst of Heron House,” the duke explained. “His father was a butcher here at one time, I understand.”

  The vicar’s wife nodded. “That would be Mr. Maurice Hobson, sir,” she said. “He lives on the hill now.” She pointed to the east. “A redbrick house, sir, with roses in the front garden.”

  “How strange,” Fleur said as they turned away, the vicar’s wife standing politely on the doorstep to see them on their way. “Mollie was quite sure it was Wroxford, and it seems to be the right place. His father does live here. But he was not buried here? I must speak with Mr. Hobson. It is not too late, is it?”

  “I’m afraid so,” he said. “We will put up at the inn for tonight and I will call on Mr. Hobson in the morning. Alone, Fleur. I don’t think it advisable for you to meet him.”

  “But I cannot expect you to do that for me,” she said.

  “I will do it nevertheless,” he said, handing her back into his carriage. “And for tonight you are Miss Kent, my sister.”

  “Yes,” she said. “T
hank you. But what can it mean? Matthew did not have Daniel bury Hobson because he wanted to bring him home. But this is home, and the burial was not here.”

  “I am sure there is a perfectly good explanation,” he said, taking her hand in his again. “I shall discover what it is tomorrow. Are you hungry? And don’t say no. I am, and I hate eating alone.”

  “A little,” she said. She smiled quickly at him. “Oh, not very. But what can be the meaning of it? Have we come all this way for nothing? Is this business never to have an ending?”

  “Tomorrow,” he said. “For the rest of this evening you are going to sit and watch me eat, and eat a little yourself, and tell me all about your early childhood. I entertained you this afternoon before we both fell asleep. Now it is your turn.”

  “There is not much to tell,” she said. “My parents died when I was eight. I cannot remember a great deal.”

  “More than you think, I will wager,” he said. “Here we are. I hope this inn offers somewhat better accommodation than the one in your village. And better food too.”

  They were given small rooms next to each other. There was nothing fancy about either one, but the inn did boast a private parlor, which the duke engaged for the evening. There were about a dozen men in the public taproom.

  She should feel embarrassed, Fleur thought. She was alone during the darkness of the evening with the Duke of Ridgeway. They were to sleep in adjoining rooms in a village inn. They had been alone together all day, their hands clasped for most of the time. And she had woken up at some time late in the afternoon with her head on his shoulder.

  She had removed it carefully, hoping that he was asleep too and would not know. But he had been quietly looking out of the window. Her hand had still been in his. And he had turned his head to smile at her. She had smiled back a little shamefaced but not nearly as confused as she might have expected to be.

  It was almost as if, she thought, when they had left Heron House they had also left behind them the world and normal life and normal propriety. Almost as if they had made a tacit and mutual agreement to live these two days as if they were the only two days left in life.

  And in a way they were. By the next night they would be back at Heron House. The morning after, he would leave and she would never see or hear from him again.

  Two days seemed very little time.

  No, there was no time for embarrassment or awkwardness between them. There was only the rest of that evening and the next day.

  They sat a long time over their dinner. And she discovered that he had been quite right. When she started talking about her childhood, she found that she remembered incidents and feelings she had not thought of for years.

  “I suppose,” she said at last, “that I should be thankful for those eight years. Many children do not have even that long a time of love and security. I have been in the habit of thinking that I had a rather hard lot. It does me good to remember.”

  “Fleur,” he said, his dark eyes smiling at her, “you have had a hard lot. But you are a strong person, a survivor. I hope that one day you will find a happiness you have never even dreamed possible.”

  “I will settle for contentment,” she said. And she told him her plans.

  “The children will be fortunate,” he said. “I know you are a good teacher and care for children, Fleur. And I would guess that Miss Booth is well-liked too. And what about the Reverened Daniel Booth?”

  “What about him?” she asked warily.

  “You were to marry him,” he said. “You loved him, didn’t you?”

  “I thought I did,” she said. “He was kind to me at a time when I did not know much kindness. And he is a handsome man.”

  “You don’t love him now?” he asked.

  “I think he is too good for me,” she said. “He can see a clear distinction between right and wrong, and he will stick by what he believes to be right no matter what. I can see too many shades of gray. I would not make a good clergyman’s wife.”

  “Has he asked you again?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I said no.” She hesitated. “I told him everything. Except your name.”

  “Yes,” he said, “you would tell him. And he did not repeat his offer?”

  “I had already refused,” she said.

  “He cannot love you, Fleur,” he said. “He is not worthy of you. If I were in his place, I would fight for the rest of a lifetime to get you to change your mind. And I would honor you the more for your courage and your honesty.”

  She repositioned the spoon in her saucer. “A clergyman is not worthy of a whore?” she said. “Are we living in a topsy-turvy world?”

  “Did he call you that?” he asked.

  “Yes, he did use the word.” She took her hands away from the spoon and clasped them in her lap. “It is the simple truth, is it not?”

  “It is a good thing he is thirty miles away,” he said. “My fists itch to rearrange the features on his face.” He slammed his napkin down onto the table and got to his feet. “I could kill him, the sanctimonious fool.”

  “I should have added,” she said, “that he said the word more in horror and pain than in condemnation.”

  He moved around the table and leaned over her, one hand braced on the table. “Fleur,” he said, “don’t ever let yourself be dragged down by that label. Promise me you won’t.”

  “I have accepted the fact that I did the only thing it seemed possible to do at the time,” she said, looking up into his eyes. “It is in the past. Like your scars with you, it will always be with me and it will always affect my life. But I will not let it destroy me.”

  “I would double my own scars and live with them,” he said, “if only I could remove yours from you, Fleur.” His eyes burned down into hers.

  “Don’t.” She reached up one hand and cupped his scarred cheek with her hand. “Don’t, please. What happened was not your fault. None of it was. And I think that everything that happens in life happens for a purpose. We become stronger people if we are not destroyed by the troubles of life.”

  “Fleur.” He held her hand against his cheek. “And is there a purpose to this too? To you and me and to the fact that we must never see each other again after tomorrow?”

  She bit her lip.

  He straightened up and released her hand. “I am going for a walk,” he said. “Come. I will see you to your room first. It has been a long and an eventful day. Tomorrow we will find what you have come to see, I promise you.”

  She preceded him up the stairs and turned the key in the lock of her door. He was standing at quite a distance from her when she looked up.

  “Good night, Fleur,” he said.

  “Good night, your grace.”

  “Adam,” he said. “Say it. I want to hear you say it.”

  “Adam,” she whispered. “Good night, Adam.”

  And he was gone, his booted feet heavy on the stairs even before she had closed and locked her door behind her.

  THE DUKE OF RIDGEWAY walked back from the red house on the hill the following morning, deep in thought. Had Brocklehurst been that obsessed with her? It seemed that he must have been if he had gone to such extraordinary lengths to get her within his power.

  And yet he had been content to net her, knowing very well that she neither liked nor respected him and could never love him. There were some strange men in the world.

  There was something not at all normal about Brocklehurst.

  Unless he had misinterpreted events entirely, the duke thought. But what other possible explanation could there be?

  Fleur was in the private parlor at the inn, where he had left her after an early breakfast. He had persuaded her, with some difficulty, to allow him to go alone to Mr. Hobson’s house.

  “Well?” She stopped moving as he opened the door, and gazed tensely at him.

  “It seems that the burial took place at Taunton,” he said. “It is about twenty miles from here, forty from Heron House. Mr. Hobson has been there and seen the grave. Th
ere is a tombstone there now.”

  She stared at him. “At Taunton?” she said. “But why?”

  “It seems that Hobson was killed close to there,” he said, “when he and Brocklehurst were returning from London. Brocklehurst buried him there before traveling on here to break the news to the family.”

  Fleur stared at him. “I don’t understand,” she said. “It was at Heron House that he died.”

  “Of course,” the duke said.

  “The only reason he was not buried there was that his family was here,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  She frowned at him.

  “We will go to Taunton and see this thing through,” he said. “Are you ready to leave?”

  She continued to frown at him. The truth, or what must clearly be the truth, had not yet dawned on her. And perhaps it was as well. Perhaps it was not, after all, the truth. He would say nothing of his suspicions to her.

  “Yes,” she said.

  Fifteen minutes later they were on their way.

  “This makes no sense,” she said. “Taunton is not even on the direct route to Wroxford.”

  She reached out her hand for his without even realizing what she was doing, he guessed. He took it in his and rested it on his thigh.

  “Relax and enjoy the journey,” he said. “We will ask questions when we get to the end of it.”

  “We will not get home today,” she said. “Your journey will be delayed for another day.”

  “Yes,” he said. And he raised her hand to his lips before returning it to his thigh. He looked into her eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “I’m not.”

  She caught her lower lip between her teeth.

  “What shall we talk about today?” he said. “School? Tell me about yours. It was not a happy experience, was it?”

  “Oh, in some ways,” she said. “I learned to love books while I was there and to love music even more than I had before. I learned to live with my imagination. It can add a wonderful dimension to life.”

  “Yes,” he said. “It can make a dreary life seem bright, can’t it?”

  They smiled at each other before she talked on.