The Secret Pearl

by Mary Balogh

  She had gone out before luncheon, her maid told him. Armitage had thought that her grace had gone only for a short walk, but she must have misunderstood the matter. Her grace must have taken the carriage and gone into town.

  The duke frowned. He had come from the stables little more than an hour before. No one had said anything about Sybil’s taking out a carriage.

  And yet it was not the sort of weather in which she would walk. And luncheon had been two hours before.

  “Thank you,” he said, nodding curtly to his wife’s maid.

  No carriage had been taken, he discovered five minutes later at the stables. The duchess had not been there.

  “But I did see her this morning walking in that direction, your grace,” Ned Driscoll said, pointing toward the lake. “But that was hours ago.”

  “Thank you,” the duke said.

  It was starting to rain, a cold, driving rain, which quickly chilled the body even through clothing and found a cheerless path down one’s neck. The duke walked briskly toward the lake.

  One of the boats was out on the water, he saw instantly—overturned and floating without direction. Something dark was caught among the reeds close to the island.

  Some minutes later, from the other boat, he disentangled his wife’s body from the reeds and lifted her into the boat. He rowed back to shore, beached the boat, lifted her carefully into his arms, and began the walk back to the house.

  Even soaking wet, with her clothes saturated, she weighed no more than a feather. One white and fragile hand was resting across her stomach.

  His feet felt as if they were made of lead. There was a soreness in his throat and in his chest that impeded his breathing.

  He had loved her once—her beauty and her light step and her sweet voice. With all of a young man’s ardor he had loved her. And he had married her and vowed to love and cherish her until death. Yet he had been unable to protect her from the sort of despair that had driven her to take her own life.

  There were a few grooms outside the stables, watching his approach as if they had sensed that something was wrong. And Jarvis and a footman were somehow out at the top of the horseshoe steps as he carried his burden up them.

  “Her grace has met with an accident,” he said, surprised at the firmness of his own voice. “Send Armitage and Mrs. Laycock to her room, please, Jarvis.”

  “She is hurt, your grace?” The butler for once had been surprised out of his stiffness.

  “Dead,” his grace said, walking past him and into the great hall and past Houghton and his brother’s valet standing there, the latter covered with the dust and mud of travel.

  He carried his wife into her bedchamber and laid her carefully on her bed, straightening the sprawling limbs, arranging the wet clothing neatly, reaching out to close the dead eyes, touching the beautiful silver-blond hair, now wet and muddy. And he knelt beside the bed, took one of her hands in his, laid it against his cheek, and wept.

  Wept for the death of an ardent and immature love that had been unable to bring any comfort or peace to the beloved. And wept for the woman he had taken to wife with such high ideals—the woman who had just killed herself rather than face a final illness with only his arms to comfort her. Wept for his own frailty and infidelity. For his own humanness.

  He got to his feet eventually, knowing that Armitage and Mrs. Laycock had been standing behind him for some time. He turned without a word and went through the dressing room into the oval sitting room.

  His steps took him to the escritoire, on which was an open letter. He should not read it, some remote part of his mind told him. It was his wife’s. But his wife was dead.

  And so he bent over it, quite without curiosity. And found out thus, before Houghton and his brother’s valet had the chance to speak with him, about Lord Thomas Kent’s death in a gaming-hell brawl a few days before.

  SHE KNEW, OF COURSE, THAT SHE WOULD EVENTUALLY open the letter. She had known it from the moment Daniel had set in in her hands. How could she not open it, reach out one more time to touch his life?

  And yet she resented it. And hated him. For in four and a half months she had realized that she was not over the pain at all, that it would take many more months of determined living in the present before she would stop longing for him by day and aching for his arms at night.

  She got up and made herself a cup of tea, drank it slowly and deliberately, looking at the letter propped against the vase the whole time.

  And finally she admitted to herself that the reason for delay was not so much her resentment, her knowledge that to read his message would open all the wounds again, as something else entirely. The reason she delayed was that she knew that it would take only a few minutes to read the letter. And then there would be no more. Once again there would be the emptiness and the silence stretching out to infinity.

  She set her cup and saucer aside, reached out for the letter, weighed it in her hands, lifted it to her lips, pressed it against her cheek.

  Perhaps it was, after all, she thought, a letter from someone else in the house. From Mrs. Laycock, maybe. The thought set her stomach to churning and her fingers to tearing at the seal in a panic.

  Her eyes went straight to the bottom of the page, to the signature. “Adam,” he had signed himself in heavy bold handwriting. She bit down on her lower lip and closed her eyes briefly. And sat down in her chair again.

  “My dearest Fleur,” he had written, “I write to tell you of two bereavements in my family. My brother was killed in a fight in London a little more than a month ago. My wife died of accidental drowning the very day the news of his death reached Willoughby. I have buried them both, side by side, in the family burial ground.”

  Fleur lowered the letter to her lap. She closed her eyes tightly and set one hand over her mouth. Adam. Oh, poor Adam.

  “Tomorrow I am taking Pamela traveling on the Continent,” the letter continued. “She has been inconsolable. She adored Sybil. I shall stay away with her for the winter and perhaps for the full year of our mourning.

  “When the year is over, I shall come into Wiltshire. I will say no more now. You will understand that the past month has been a distressing one. And I owe her a year of mourning, Fleur, and my brother, too, of course.

  “I wanted you to know these things before I leave. And I will add that I meant every word of what I said to you when I was in Wiltshire.”

  Fleur lowered the letter to her lap again, folded it neatly, and noticed almost dispassionately that her hands were trembling.

  She was dead. His wife was dead. He had written that she had died by accident, but she had died on the day word of Lord Thomas’ death had come to them. And Lord Thomas was Lady Pamela’s father. She had taken her own life, then. She must have thrown herself into the lake.

  Oh, poor Adam. Poor Adam. How he would blame himself!

  But she was dead. He was free. After the year of his mourning was over, he was going to come into Wiltshire. In eleven months’ time. At the end of September.

  No, she must not think it. She must not expect it. For eleven months seemed an endless eternity. Anything could happen in that time. One of them could die. He could have a change of heart. He could meet someone else on his travels. He could enjoy traveling so much that he would stay away for years. Lady Pamela could be unwilling for him to come to her.

  Anything could happen. Eleven months ago she had not even met him. And yet it seemed that she had known him forever. That meant that she had longer than forever to wait, and then he might not come at the end of it.

  She would not think of it, she decided, getting to her feet and propping the letter carefully against the vase again. She would not think of it. If he came at the end of the year, then she would hear what he had to say. If he did not come, then she would not be disappointed because she would not expect him.

  And yet that night and for many nights to come she dreamed of him, strange, disturbing dreams in which he reached out to her across an expanse of water just
wide enough that she could not see him clearly and called to her in words she could not quite hear. And each time she awoke, her arms were empty and the bed beside her cold.

  She redoubled her efforts to be a good teacher and gave up many of her spare hours to the instruction of music. And she visited her neighbors—particularly the elderly ones, who depended upon visitors to relieve the tedium of the day—and accepted every invitation she received. Even when Cousin Caroline came home—Amelia was married and living in Lincolnshire—and she knew that they would be at the same entertainment, she went too.

  And she clung to her friendship with Miriam as if to a lifeline.

  She was right about one thing, she thought whenever she permitted herself to think consciously about the matter. Eleven months was longer than an eternity.

  “WILL WE BE GOING home soon, Papa?” Lady Pamela Kent was sitting on the carriage seat opposite her father, stroking one finger up over the nose and over the top of the head of her dog, whose eyes were closing in ecstasy.

  “Soon,” he said. “Will you be glad? We have seen many wonders together in the past year, haven’t we? Perhaps you will be dull at home.”

  “I can hardly wait,” she said. “Why are we going to see Miss Hamilton, Papa? Is she going to be my governess again?”

  “Would you like her to be?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said after thinking for a moment. “But I would be afraid she would go away again.” She looked up at him with suddenly anxious eyes. “You won’t go away, Papa, will you? When we are at home, you won’t go back to London and leave me alone?”

  The old anxiety. For weeks after her mother’s death she had woken screaming almost nightly, terrified that she had been abandoned. The Duke of Ridgeway smiled comfortingly at her. Even before they had set off on their travels he had had to spend almost every moment of every day with her. For a long time he had had to bring her into his bed at night so that his voice and his arms would be there for her when she woke up.

  “I will not be going anywhere,” he said. “From now on, Pamela, wherever I go, you will go too.”

  “I wonder if Timothy Chamberlain and the others have grown,” she said.

  “I daresay they have,” he said. “Or maybe it was just the continental air that stretched you out.”

  She looked at him and giggled.

  “What if we do not take Miss Hamilton back to Willoughby as your governess?” he said. “What if we take her back as your new mama?”

  She looked at him blankly. “But I have a mama,” she said.

  “Yes.” He knew that he should have broached the subject with her long before. But he had never found the right words or the courage. He was not sure that he had found the words yet. “You have a mama, Pamela, and she will always be more dear to you than anyone else in life until you grow up and have a family of your own. But since Mama cannot be with you any longer, wouldn’t you like someone else who would do with you some of the things Mama would have done?”

  “Miss Hamilton?” she said doubtfully.

  “You like her, don’t you?” he asked.

  She hesitated. “Yes,” she said. “But she went away without saying good-bye, Papa.”

  “That was not her fault,” he said. “She would have done so if she could. But she had to run from a wicked man, Pamela, and had no chance to say good-bye to anyone. I believe she loved you.”

  “But if she is to be my mama,” she said, “then she will have to be your wife, Papa. How would you like that?”

  He looked at her gravely. “I would like it very well,” he said.

  “You would not find it a trouble to do that for me?” she asked, turning her head aside and wrinkling her nose as the dog sat up and tried to lick her face.

  “No,” he said. “It is something I want too, Pamela. You see, I love Miss Hamilton.”

  She pushed the dog away with uncharacteristic roughness. “But you love me!” she said.

  “Of course I do.” He moved across the carriage to sit beside her, and lifted her onto his lap. “You are my daughter. My firstborn and my very own. Nothing will ever change that, Pamela. You will always be the first girl in my life. But we can all love more than one person. You loved Mama and you love me, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” she said doubtfully. “And I love Tiny.”

  “Well, then,” he said. “I love you and I love Miss Hamilton. And if she marries me and we have other children, I will love them too. And you will always be their eldest sister—always someone special.”

  “Is she going to come with us right away?” she asked. “I am going to show her Tiny. She will be surprised to see how big she has grown, won’t she? And I am going to tell her that I was not sick on the boat. Don’t you tell, Papa. Let me.”

  “Agreed,” he said, resting his cheek against the top of her head. “I haven’t asked her yet, Pamela. Maybe she will say no. Maybe she is quite happy where she is, teaching in her school and living in her little cottage. But I shall ask her.” He chuckled. “Don’t you ask. Let me.”

  “Agreed,” his daughter said, and wriggled from his lap to worry the dog, who had settled peacefully on the other seat.

  The duke sat back against the cushions and watched them. It was very possible that she would say no. Indeed, perhaps she was married already—to her Daniel or to some other gentleman of her neighborhood. He must not allow himself to hope too much.

  A year before—or eleven months before, when he had finally pulled himself free of the worst of the nightmare surrounding the double death of his brother and his wife—he had felt confident of her answer though he had felt obliged to stay away from her during the year of his mourning. He had allowed himself only that one brief letter.

  But eleven months seemed like an eternity. He and Pamela had traveled for the whole of that time and had seen many places and met many people. It seemed like longer than a year since he had been in England.

  He could remember the words she had said to him—how could he ever forget? And he could remember the passionate abandon with which she had given herself to him on that one night before he left her. He had relived that night many times in his imagination. At the time he had believed that her love, like his own, would last for all eternity and even beyond. But now he was less sure.

  Her love had not been of such long duration as his own. She had hated him and been repulsed by him—with good reason. It was only in those last days, when they had traveled together in search of Hobson’s grave, that she had grown comfortable with him, that they had developed a friendship and become lovers.

  It was understandable under the circumstances that they had ended up in each other’s arms.

  Perhaps for her there was no more to it than that. Genuine as her feelings had been at the time, perhaps they had faded in the days and weeks that had followed his departure. He must be prepared to find her cool and embarrassed by his visit.

  He closed his eyes and allowed himself to be lulled by the motion of the carriage. He must not expect that she had thought of him every moment of every day—not consciously, perhaps, but deep down where feelings and meanings are. He must not expect that she had made him part of her dreams, both waking and sleeping. He must not expect that she was like him.

  Fleur. He would see her the next day if she had not moved away.

  At last. Ah, at last. The more than fifteen months since he had squeezed her hands and said good-bye and jumped into this very carriage to be taken away from her seemed longer than forever. Far longer.

  FLEUR WAS TEACHING READING to a group of the youngest children while Miriam was conducting a geography lesson with the others.

  But it was doubtful that anyone was learning a great deal, Fleur thought, smiling at one little boy to bring his attention back to the lesson. There was an air of suppressed excitement in the room. It did not take a great deal to excite these children. They were to go on a nature ramble as soon as morning classes were over, taking their luncheon with them. It was the end of September
, the last opportunity they would have for such an outing before the weather grew too cold.

  She and Miriam were to accompany the children, as well as Daniel, who often came into the school to give a scripture lesson, and Dr. Wetherald, who had been showing a marked preference for Miriam in the past several months, though Miriam declared in her usual cheerful, forthright manner that they were just friends. Fleur had been interested to note, though, that her friend blushed when saying so.

  There really was no need of so many adult chaperones, Fleur thought, but it was a treat for them, too, to get out into the fresh air and the countryside for the whole of an afternoon.

  A knock on the door destroyed the last vestiges of the children’s attention. Fleur smiled and shook her head as the eyes of her group of children, and doubtless their minds too, followed Miriam to the door.

  “Is Miss Hamilton here, please?” a polite young voice asked.

  Fleur spun around on her chair.

  “I am afraid there is no one of that name here, my dear,” Miriam said. “Are you …?”

  “Pamela!” Fleur was up out of her chair and hurrying across the room, her arms outstretched. “Here I am. Oh, how tall you have grown, and how good it is to see you.” She bent down to hug the child and was instantly aware of a tall, dark figure standing some distance behind her, against the crested carriage.

  “Papa says the air of the Continent has made me grow,” Lady Pamela said. “Tiny is in the carriage, Miss Hamilton. Wait until you see how she has grown. She is not tiny any longer.

  And I was not sick coming across in the boat from France, though some of the ladies were.”

  Fleur was stooped down in front of her. “I am very proud of you,” she said. “And are you on your way home?” If her life had depended upon it, she did not believe she could have shifted her gaze to the man standing a few feet away.