And maybe, in the process, unravel the tangled web of the past.
On silent, bare feet, Ariana slipped into the hallway, glancing furtively right and left. The hall was deserted. She padded down to the sitting room and opened the door.
The room was as she remembered it: stark and empty. She glanced at the neglected armchair, which bespoke long, contented hours of reading and sketching, then hurried past it to the desk. For a long moment she stood, hand hovering over the top drawer. Never in her life had she pried into someone else’s things, and guilt fell heavily upon her, reminding her that what she was about to do was a gross invasion of privacy. Determination swiftly intervened, successfully arguing that her cause was a just one. Just and necessary.
Her decision made, Ariana yanked open the drawer.
A pile of sketches filled the drawer, sketches Ariana quickly recognized as various renovations to Broddington. The notes on each were initialed R.K, so she had no doubt as to who had made them. Lifting the stack of papers, she peered beneath. Nothing.
Undaunted, Ariana replaced the documents and closed the drawer, pulling open the one directly beneath. The contents were few and carefully placed: three gold frames containing three old photographs; a woman and two young boys. Her lips curving upward, Ariana studied them, recognizing the late Duchess of Broddington from the portraits of her that hung in the gallery and the younger, midnight blue-eyed lad with the mischievous grin as Dustin.
Still smiling, Ariana turned her attention to the third photo, her tender sentiments vanishing in a rush as her gaze locked with the penetrating cobalt stare of her husband. Dustin had been right: Even as a boy, Trenton was magnificently compelling, handsome as sin, with only a hint of the devastating charm time had yet to enhance. His youthful face, free of the harsh lines he now bore, together with his dazzling smile, equally as infectious as Ariana had noted in the maze where they'd met, made him almost irresistible in his appeal. And yet, even in boyhood, he seemed almost frighteningly intense, holding Ariana prisoner with his piercing stare. A prickle of fear shot up her spine, and she tore her gaze away, her breath coming in shallow pants.
Abruptly, she dropped the photos back in place and slammed the drawer shut.
The noise echoed through the vacant room and Ariana started, having forgotten the threat of discovery, having forgotten everything as she always did beneath Trenton’s hypnotic stare. Anxiously, she squatted behind the desk, waiting to see if she had alerted the household to her whereabouts.
Long minutes ticked by, accompanied only by the violent pounding of her heart.
At last, she heaved a sigh of relief and rose to continue her search.
The bottom drawer yielded only two old volumes of literature: one Milton, the other Chaucer. Ariana looked through them carefully, hoping to find a note or a letter that had inadvertently been left between the pages. She found nothing.
Disappointed, she slid the books back into the drawer, only to find they no longer fit. With a puzzled frown she removed them and tried again, this time at a different angle, but to no avail. The drawer simply refused to accept both volumes.
Groaning softly, Ariana dropped to her knees, placing both books on the floor beside her. This was a complication she hadn't expected and intended to correct immediately. While she had thus far managed to disturb nothing of consequence in the room, she harbored not the slightest doubt that Trenton would notice if one of the tomes that was originally within the desk was now atop it. She peered into the drawer and at first saw nothing. She was about to arise when a slight variation in color caught her eye from the rear of the drawer. It was a subtly lighter hue of brown than the walnut desk, nearly invisible unless one was looking.
And Ariana was looking.
Eagerly, she reached inside, her fingers closing around a slim ledger or pad-one she had apparently upset when she'd removed the books. Pulling it out, she saw that she held a worn, unmarked notebook that housed perhaps thirty pages. Curious, she sat cross-legged on the floor, draping her skirts about her, and folded back the faded cover.
The scent of roses immediately accosted her. Roses: Vanessa's unmistakable fragrance.
With a terrified cry, Ariana dropped the notebook to the floor, her entire body going rigid with shock.
The book she held was Vanessa's journal.
Trembling, Ariana inhaled sharply, fervently wishing she had never thought of exploring the sitting room. But she had, and now her choices were nil.
Still shaking violently, she reached out a tentative hand and picked up her sister’s journal, staring at the flowing, familiar hand.
She'd wanted the truth. Now she would have it.
Page one was dated April 28, 1869: the spring before Vanessa's death. Wetting her parched lips, Ariana began to read.
I've finally met him. The man I've awaited forever. Trenton Kingsley. What a magnificent name. What a magnificent man. He says we have the entire Season to dance in each other's arms. He makes me dizzy even when we aren't dancing. I want him-and I intend to get him, just as I've gotten everything else I've ever wanted.
Ariana swallowed and turned the page.
May 15, 1869
I'm the envy of every woman in London. Trenton is shameless in his intentions and his pursuit. When I'm not beside him, his eyes are always upon me. It’s only a matter of time before our feelings take over and all discretion is cast aside. Then, all I crave will be mine.
A ponderous weight descended on Ariana's heart, oppressive and aching. She fought it, silently chastising herself for the idiocy of her reaction. The fact that Trenton and Vanessa had been lovers was no new revelation, but one she’d known for years. So why on earth did it agonize her to see a confirmation of the truth?
It's just the shock of finding Vanessa's journal, she assured herself, together with the jolt of reliving the past through her eyes.
Ariana's shoulders sagged. She'd never lied to herself before, and she wouldn’t begin now. The true cause of her immediate distress had nothing to do with Vanessa's death and everything to do with her life. Quite simply, the thought of Vanessa in Trenton's arms, the image of her in his bed, made Ariana ill.
Because, unthinkable as it was, she was still in love with her husband.
A sharp sting made Ariana wince. She hadn't realized she was gripping the journal so tightly. Slowly, she uncurled her fingers, watching a rivulet of blood redden her thumb where the paper had pierced it. Instinctively, she raised the injured finger to her lips, soothing the cut with the tip of her tongue-but not before a tiny bit of blood had trickled onto the open journal.
Uneasily, Ariana stared at the smudge of red that slowly stained the next page of Vanessa's words, feeling a disturbing sense of foreboding seep inside her as she returned to her reading.
June 17, 1869
I belong to you, Trenton, as we both knew I would. Nothing can undo what we have forged between us. And yet, you're restless, angry. When you should feel assurance, you feel only doubt. Your inner demons frighten me. Don't you believe you're all l want? You say you do, yet you strike out, again and again. Everyone fears you. I fear you. Your intensity burns me, inside and out. You're so volatile, so savagely intense, so possessive. It's as if you want something more than I have to give. Oh, Trenton, I can't lose you. But I can’t hold you. You thrill me. You scare me. And I know there's no escape.
Ariana raised her head and struggled for control. There was truth to Vanessa’s words: enough truth to terrify her. Trenton was every one of those things: volatile, intense, possessive. Frightening.
Dear God, what had he done?
Her head spinning, Ariana skipped ahead to the last few journal entries.
July 2, 1869
Why do you refuse to believe me, Trenton? I've never betrayed you. Yet you keep lashing out at me, hurting me again and again. I'm no match for your strength, your physical domination. When we love it's as if you want to punish me, to destroy me and absorb me all at once. There's madness in your eyes. I se
e it, and I want to run. But there's nowhere I can hide where you won't find me. You've made me realize that. So I must endure whatever pain you choose to inflict.
Pain? Ariana fought back a wave of nausea, focusing on the journal's final page.
July 25, 1869
It's over. Us, life-I can sense the finality, the futility as I prepare to meet you. The wind outside is wild and relentless, but it pales beside the storm that rages within you, a storm that cannot be silenced. Within me lies only emptiness. There's nothing left, Trenton, not even pain. You've killed it all, and now only a shell remains. Do with me what you will. It no longer matters. Nothing matters. I'll join you where you await me. And at the water's edge, we'll say our good-byes.
With a strangled cry, Ariana slammed the journal shut, the words she'd just read forever engraved in her mind. She jammed her fist into her mouth, trying desperately to suppress the choked sobs that refused to be silenced. At the same time, the conversation she'd had with Trenton yesterday-in this very spot-replayed itself in her mind.
"Let's say I have no affinity for this room. I associate it with pain and loss."
"I understand."
"I wonder if you do."
At the time, Ariana had assumed Trenton referred to the painful loss of his father. Dear God, had he meant Vanessa? Was it her loss he'd alluded to?
Tears streamed down Ariana's face, unchecked and unnoticed. Was this the sanctuary Trenton sought to think about Vanessa, to write to her, to plot how to keep her?
Ariana squeezed her eyes shut, unable to suppress the ugly speculations besieging her.
Had Trenton forced Vanessa to make love to him in this very sitting room? Was that why he loathed spending time within these walls? Had he buried Vanessa’s memory here alongside her journal? And was it her loss or the part he'd played in inciting it that tormented him?
"So... have you found what you were looking for?"
The journal hit the floor with a thud and Ariana leapt to her feet, terror knotting her stomach at the sight of Trenton looming in the open doorway.
"From the horrified look on your face, I'll assume the answer to my question is yes." Trenton closed the door, leaning back against it. "How much did you read?"
She could scarcely get out the words. "All of it," she whispered.
Menacing shadows descended on Trenton's face, and condemnation blazed in his eyes. "I hope to God you know what you've done."
Ariana had a sudden, overwhelming urge to flee: from her husband, from Broddington, and from the hideous past that continued to unravel before her like some horrid, inescapable nightmare.
"Don't even consider it."
"Consider... what?" Ariana fought the dizziness that threatened to envelop her.
"Bolting. You won't get far. And even if you do, I'll find you."
Ariana blinked, staring at Trenton as if he were a stranger, and indeed, at that moment, he was. "And what would you do then? Drag me back to Broddington? Beat me? Terrorize me?"
"Murder you?" Trenton suggested, his tone low, ominous.
All the color drained from Ariana's face. "What kind of a man are you?" she asked in aching disbelief.
"A vengeful, heartless one." Without warning, Trenton moved toward her, his stride swift, purposeful. His arm swung outward, and, Ariana flinched reflexively, awaiting the oncoming assault.
It never came.
With a mocking smile, Trenton leaned past her and scooped up the journal, snapping it shut with a violent flourish. "You should have heeded my advice. I did warn you not to dredge up the past."
"What are you going to do with me?" she forced herself to ask.
"Do?" Trenton slid the journal back into the desk drawer. "For the time being, I'm taking you to Spraystone."
"Spraystone?" Ariana started. "Why?"
"Because I'll be staying there and, as my wife, so will you."
"No." The word was out before she could recall it.
"No?" Trenton repeated, as if the sound were foreign to him.
"I-I really don't wish to leave Broddington," Ariana stammered, feeling as if she were drowning. "I'm just becoming accustomed to it."
"You'll accustom yourself to Spraystone as well. We leave first thing in the morning." Trenton raised her chin with his forefinger. "Anything else?"
Ariana kept her gaze averted, studying the hard lines of her husband's mouth. "Will Dustin be joining us?" she tried.
"No. Dustin is returning to Tyreham at dawn."
"I see." Ariana's heart sank in resignation. "Very well, then. I'll advise Theresa. We'll be ready to depart after breakfast."
"Theresa will be staying at Broddington."
Now Ariana's head shot up. "What?"
"You heard me. Spraystone is not designed to accommodate servants. It is modest in size and design. Theresa will remain here."
"Why are you doing this?" Ariana breathed, searching his face for her answer.
Something brief flashed behind Trenton's iron mask, then dissipated. "Broddington is my property. Spraystone is my home. I plan to go home. I intend for you to accompany me. I believe that is reasonably clear."
"Are you punishing me for reading the journal?"
His lips twisted bitterly. "Ariana, if I were punishing you, you'd know it."
"But you're forcing me to go with you."
"Think of it as a wedding trip." Trenton released her chin, turning to go. "Now I'd suggest you begin packing. Oh, and Ariana?" He paused in the doorway, his voice emanating icy condemnation. "Don't invade my privacy again."
Flinching as the door slammed shut, Ariana wrapped her arms about herself to still the trembling that began deep inside. What in heaven's name had she done? She'd unearthed Vanessa's journal, yes; but instead of resolving the past it had only succeeded in further complicating the present.
Ariana pressed her lips tightly together, lambasting herself for her stupidity and her helplessness. Intuition told her that this final act had pushed Trenton to the jagged edges of his control. Lord only knew what he intended-or what brutality he was capable of inflicting. For her to accompany him to his isolated retreat would be insane. Yet what choice did she have, with escape a virtual impossibility?
No, like it or not, tomorrow morning she was departing for the secluded Isle of Wight. Alone... with Trenton.
"Why are you receiving this news so calmly?" Ariana demanded, flinging two of her gowns to the bed.
Theresa chewed her lip thoughtfully. "I wouldn't suggest taking those, pet. They’re far too warm for this time of year."
"What?" Ariana glanced impatiently at the gowns. "I don't care which bloody gowns I pack, Theresa! Do you understand the ramifications of what I'm telling you?"
Theresa nodded calmly, unsurprised by her mistress's rare show of temper. "I heard everything you said, Your Grace. And I can well understand your distress."
Ariana shot Theresa an incredulous look. "My distress? I'm being dragged to an isolated estate by the man who, in all likelihood, killed my sister, and you call that reason for distress?"
"Ah, I see." Theresa tucked a wiry sprig of hair back into her drooping bun. "You're doubting your instincts again."
"My instincts are intangible. Vanessa's journal is concrete."
" `There is nothing makes a man suspect much, more than to know little,"' Theresa quoted Bacon, at the same time continuing to pack. "The journal's existence is indeed a fact, but its words are open to interpretation."
"But if you'd read it-"
"It would verify what I already know. That Lady Vanessa was plagued and puzzled by your husband, and that the duke is a volatile, intense, and possessive man."
Ariana gripped Theresa's arm. "Those were Vanessa's exact words to describe Trenton."
"Yes, I know." Theresa frowned, smoothing her apron. "Where is that lovely peach summer gown? I could have sworn I laundered it."
"You do know," Ariana repeated, realization striking her with the force of a thunderbolt. "You've seen the journal, ha
ven't you, Theresa? You've read it."
Theresa inclined her head, regarding Ariana with her keen, birdlike eyes. "I've seen it, yes, but I haven't held it in my hands."
"What does that mean?"
"It means I've seen the journal, numerous times, but only in my visions. So have I seen it? Yes... I have. Others, however, would argue that I have not." She smiled, patting Ariana's cheek. "Such is the case with Vanessa's words...and with the duke's guilt. As I've pointed out, appearance is a fascinating thing: changing in accordance with one's perspective, and often not as believed to be."
"I'm afraid to go to Spraystone with him," Ariana confessed, her fingers tightening on Theresa's arm.
"Had the duke any desire to harm you, his access is equally good at Broddington," Theresa submitted. "Has he made an attempt to do so?"
Ariana bowed her head, unbidden memories of long, exhilarating hours in Trenton’s arms assailing her. "No," she admitted. "But why is he so adamant that no one accompany us to Spraystone?"
"Is it so unusual for a newly married man to want time alone with his bride?"
Ariana flushed. "No... of course not."
"In the words of Sir Francis, `A man must make his opportunity, as oft as find it.' Why not use this trip as a chance to seek the truth, to learn your husband as openly in heart as you have in body?"
Ariana was too intrigued by that possibility to be embarrassed by Theresa’s open reference to the marriage bed. "Do you think Trenton might actually offer me the truth?"
Theresa smoothed Ariana's copper tresses. "Truth cannot be forced upon us. One can lead us to it, but the choice whether or not to accept it as fact is ultimately ours. The duke is perpetually offering you the truth, pet. It is up to you when to accept it."
Echoes in the Mist Page 18
