Secrets

by Brenda Joyce

  And why sho­uld she be thril­led with Sla­de? He was a bas­tard and a bo­or. Ed­ward was han­d­so­me and vi­ri­le, and he was a gen­t­le­man. It sho­uldn't be too hard to get Eli­za­beth to run away from Sla­de-and in­to Ed­ward's arms.

  That wo­uld sol­ve one half of the prob­lem.

  Abruptly Vic­to­ria left the bed­ro­om. She cros­sed the co­ur­t­yard qu­ickly, sta­ying clo­se to its walls and the sha­dows they cast. The do­ors to the di­ning ro­om we­re open, the con­ver­sa­ti­on of the fa­mily cle­ar eno­ugh for her to un­der­s­tand most of what they we­re sa­ying. It was mostly a di­alo­gue bet­we­en Ed­ward and Rick. Sla­de, as usu­al, was his bo­orish, ta­ci­turn self, and Eli­za­beth was be­ing me­ek and sa­ying not­hing at all.

  Vic­to­ria slip­ped in­si­de Eli­za­beth's ro­om. It was dark wit­hin and for a mo­ment she sto­od mo­ti­on­less, lis­te­ning to the night out­si­de, to the mur­mur of the di­ners ac­ross the way, to the fa­int so­und of the wa­ves bre­aking down at the be­ach; her eyes slowly adj­us­ted to the dark.

  Then she mo­ved. She shut the bed­ro­om do­ors and snap­ped on a light. Her glan­ce swiftly to­ok in the en­ti­re ro­om, the ma­de-up but rum­p­led bed, the cha­ir and tab­le, the open ma­ga­zi­ne. She swiftly cros­sed to the ar­mo­ire and ope­ned it. A row of iro­ned, han­ging dres­ses gre­eted her. She rif­led thro­ugh them, not yet kno­wing what she was lo­oking for, but awa­re that she was lo­oking for so­met­hing, a key that wo­uld un­lock the do­or to the not qu­ite tan­gib­le puz­zle she sen­sed Eli­za­beth pre­sen­ted, a key that wo­uld sol­ve all of Vic­to­ria's prob­lems.

  The gowns we­re all be­a­uti­ful, all cus­tom-ma­de, all very ex­pen­si­ve. She slap­ped shut the ar­mo­ire's do­or and stro­de to the pi­le of trunks and lif­ted the lid of the one on top. Ca­re­les­sly she pus­hed thro­ugh the gar­ments the­re. Mo­re clot­hes, su­its, and un­der­we­ar, not­hing of in­te­rest. At the bot­tom of the chest was an as­sor­t­ment of be­a­uti­ful sho­es. At anot­her ti­me Vic­to­ria might ha­ve pa­used to ad­mi­re them and co­vet them and even try them on, but not now.

  In one of the smal­ler com­par­t­ments she fo­und jewelry. Re­gi­na ne­ver se­emed to ta­ke off the stun­ning pe­arl nec­k­la­ce she wo­re, but Vic­to­ria didn't bla­me her, for it was so va­lu­ab­le only a fo­ol wo­uld le­ave it aro­und to be sto­len. Still, the items she had left in the trunk we­re not fa­kes. The­re we­re se­ve­ral be­a­uti­ful fi­lig­re­ed gold bra­ce­lets and a dra­ma­tic to­paz nec­k­la­ce. For a mo­ment Vic­to­ria we­ig­hed the nec­k­la­ce in her hand. One day she wo­uld ha­ve jewels li­ke the­se, one day she wo­uld ha­ve bet­ter: she wo­uld ha­ve ru­bi­es and sap­phi­res ga­lo­re.

  She tos­sed the to­paz nec­k­la­ce back down, ir­ri­ta­ted. If she knew what she we­re lo­oking for it wo­uld be so much easi­er. She didn't ha­ve that much ti­me, it wo­uldn't do to get ca­ught. It wo­uld be very hard to talk her way out of such a si­tu­ati­on. She didn't ca­re what Rick tho­ught, or Sla­de or Eli­za­beth, but Ed­ward's opi­ni­on of her mat­te­red very much. It was ever­y­t­hing.

  Then her glan­ce fell upon a small, in­sig­ni­fi­cant-se­eming loc­ket. She scow­led, for it was the kind of loc­ket a child wo­uld we­ar, not a grown wo­man. She didn't ha­ve to in­s­pect it to know that it was not va­lu­ab­le. Then it oc­cur­red to her that if Eli­za­beth had bot­he­red to bring it with her to her wed­ding, it must be very sig­ni­fi­cant. She pic­ked it up.

  The­re was a small da­gu­er­re­ot­y­pe in­si­de of a yo­ung girl that re­sem­b­led Eli­za­beth but was ob­vi­o­usly not her. Vic­to­ria gu­es­sed that it was her mot­her as a yo­ung "Wo­man, Do­rothy Sin­c­la­ir, whom she had ne­ver met, for she had di­ed way be­fo­re Vic­to­ria had mar­ri­ed Rick. Vic- to­ria sig­hed, an­no­yed and im­pa­ti­ent. She tur­ned over the loc­ket ca­re­les­sly and scow­led at the boldly scrip­ted S en­g­ra­ved the­re. Then she fro­ze, sta­ring.

  At a glan­ce, the ini­ti­als on the back of the loc­ket might ap­pe­ar to be ES. But they we­re most de­fi­ni­tely not ES. Nor we­re they DS.

  They we­re RS.

  RS.

  Tho­se we­re not Eli­za­beth's ini­ti­als. They we­re not her mot­her's ini­ti­als. Who was RS?

  Why we­re the ini­ti­als RS en­g­ra­ved upon this lit­tle loc­ket?

  The­re was no re­ason for Vic­to­ria to be sus­pi­ci­o­us of Eli­za­beth ex­cept for the fact that Vic­to­ria had be­en sche­ming to ga­in her own ends sin­ce she was a ho­me­less child. In tho­se long-ago but ne­ver-for­got­ten days, she had con­ni­ved in or­der to sur­vi­ve. She had mo­re than at­ta­ined her ends when she had mar­ri­ed Rick De­lan­za twen­ty-th­ree ye­ars ago-un­til Mi­ra­mar had fal­len upon bad ti­mes.

  Now she spent her days sche­ming to ga­in for her son ever­y­t­hing that he sho­uld ha­ve, which wo­uld con­cur­rently so­li­dify her own po­si­ti­on as mis­t­ress of Mi­ra­mar. So Vic­to­ria in­s­tantly won­de­red if Eli­za­beth's am­ne­sia was fal­se and if Eli­za­beth was so­me­one ot­her than who she cla­imed to be. Her very first tho­ught was that if she we­re a no­body and a yo­ung wo­man, she wo­uld gladly pre­tend to be Eli­za­beth Sin­c­la­ir in or­der to marry in­to the De­lan­za fa­mily and ga­in the po­wer and pres­ti­ge that ca­me hand-in-glo­ve with be­ing Mi­ra­mar's first lady.

  But if that we­re the ca­se, wo­uldn't Rick ha­ve known? May­be, Vic­to­ria mu­sed, flus­hed with ex­ci­te­ment, but may­be not. Af­ter all, Rick had not se­en Eli­za­beth in fi­ve ye­ars, ex­cept that on­ce at Ge­or­ge Sin­c­la­ir's fu­ne­ral, and then she had be­en so he­avily ve­iled that no one co­uld see her fe­atu­res.

  Vic­to­ria le­aped to her fe­et, trying to tell her­self to be calm. The­re we­re many re­asons why Eli­za­beth might carry a loc­ket with in­ti­als ot­her than her own upon it. The loc­ket might ha­ve be­en gi­ven to her by the wo­man who­se ini­ti­als we­re RS. It was that sim­p­le.

  But per­haps Eli­za­beth was not who she sa­id she was- per­haps she was an im­pos­ter, a for­tu­ne-hun­ting im­pos­ter who was very cle­verly pre­ten­ding to ha­ve am­ne­sia and ma­ni­pu­la­ting them all. For if she did not know very much abo­ut the re­al Eli­za­beth Sin­c­la­ir or James or Mi­ra­mar, what bet­ter way to pull off her cha­ra­de?

  Vic­to­ria ran from the ro­om. To­mor­row she wo­uld go to San Lu­is Obis­po her­self to vi­sit Eli­za­beth's fa­mily to as­cer­ta­in if the wo­man cal­ling her­self Eli­za­beth Sin­c­la­ir was re­al­ly Eli­za­beth Sin­c­la­ir af­ter all.

  And so­me­how, Vic­to­ria knew that she was not.

  Chapter 12

  After sup­per Sla­de es­cor­ted Re­gi­na ac­ross the co­ur­t­yard and back to her ro­om. Sup­per had not be­en the most ple­asant of af­fa­irs. Vic­to­ria's ab­sen­ce was gla­ring. Ed­ward was char­ming, but he was cle­arly trying too hard to ma­ke up for his mot­her's hos­ti­lity. Rick's jovi­ality was ge­nu­ine, but over­w­hel­ming. His ob­vi­o­us ple­asu­re at the­ir im­pen­ding mar­ri­age re­min­ded Re­gi­na that he was lo­oking for­ward to her in­he­ri­tan­ce as much as- or mo­re than-her ad­vent in­to the fa­mily. Eno­ugh to ha­ve con­si­de­red her mar­rying Ed­ward in­s­te­ad of Sla­de. She co­uld not eat, she co­uld ba­rely hi­de her dis­t­ress. Not­hing co­uld ha­ve ma­de her fe­el mo­re li­ke a sack of go­ods, to be han­ded over to whic­he­ver brot­her pro­ved mo­re con­ve­ni­ent.

  Sla­de had not spo­ken du­ring the en­ti­re me­al, eit­her. But he had be­en se­ated next to her, and she had felt his glan­ce on her mo­re of­ten than not. Out­si­de her do­ors, they pa­used. It was dusky out, but a mul­ti­tu­de of stars we­re be­gin­ning to cast the­ir lights, glit­te­ring fa­intly abo­ve the­ir he­ads. All aro­
und them the he­ady scents of ro­ses and hi­bis­cus waf­ted, thick and swe­et. The fa­int so­und of the surf rus­hing at the sho­re was a lul­ling me­lody, a se­re­na­de, and the night air was so soft and ple­asant it felt li­ke a vel­vet ca­ress upon Re­gi­na's che­ek.

  It was a night ide­al­ly su­ited to ro­man­ce. Such a night dis­ma­yed Re­gi­na even mo­re. Ro­man­ce co­uld ha­ve be­en so easily on her mind. In­s­te­ad, she was con­si­de­ring how she might bro­ach the su­bj­ect of the­ir mar­ri­age, if she da­red bro­ach it in re­gard to Ed­ward. She co­uld not let this to­pic alo­ne. She had gi­ven him her word in ac­cep­ting his pro­po­sal, but she was re­ady to go back on it.

  The­re was no de­li­ca­te way to bring it up, eit­her. "I can­not be­li­eve what you sa­id in the­re."

  Sla­de le­aned aga­inst the ro­ugh sto­ne of the ho­use. "I tho­ught that was co­ming."

  She sta­red up at him. "Is that the way it was go­ing to be? If I wo­uldn't marry you, they'd bring forth Ed­ward?" Te­ars la­ced her vo­ice.

  He he­si­ta­ted.

  Re­gi­na clo­sed her eyes in mi­sery. No an­s­wer was an­s­wer eno­ugh.

  "It wo­uldn't ha­ve co­me to that," he sa­id for­ce­ful­ly. He grip­ped her wrist, ca­using her to lo­ok at him. "I know it so­unds bad. I-"

  "It's hor­rib­le!"

  "Eli­za­beth," he sa­id, very firmly, "you we­re en­ga­ged to James, or ha­ve you for­got­ten? And that was ar­ran­ged, just li­ke our mar­ri­age is."

  Her he­ad be­gan po­un­ding. "I can't re­mem­ber James. That's why it do­esn't fe­el wrong to marry you." The­re was mo­re than that, so much mo­re, in her he­art, but she wo­uld ne­ver tell him so.

  Sla­de he­si­ta­ted aga­in. "James is de­ad. De­ad, and in the past." For a scant in­s­tant, he tur­ned his fa­ce away from her. "Rick was using the thre­at of Ed­ward to bre­ak me, that's all."

  She mo­aned. "He had to for­ce you in­to the idea of mar­rying me?"

  Sla­de ut­te­red an in­co­he­rent cur­se un­der his bre­ath. "Rick can't for­ce me to do an­y­t­hing. He just li­kes trying, that's all. For­get abo­ut Ed­ward. You're not mar­rying him. It was ne­ver a pos­si­bi­lity, ex­cept may­be for Vic­to­ria, who wo­uld do an­y­t­hing if she tho­ught it wo­uld be­ne­fit Ed­ward. So­me­ti­mes I think she'd com­mit mur­der if it wo­uld help him."

  She re­gar­ded him in dis­may. How she ne­eded so­me small sign from him that he ca­red, even a lit­tle, abo­ut her!

  He shif­ted. "We're re­al­ly not so bad. It just may se­em that way right now. The De­lan­za men may not be gen­t­le po­ets, and we su­re as hell aren't very sub­t­le, but we're strong and we ta­ke ca­re of our own. On­ce you're mar­ri­ed in­to the fa­mily, you can co­unt on Rick and Ed­ward as if they we­re yo­ur own fat­her and brot­her, for an­y­t­hing. I want you to know that. On­ce you marry in­to the fa­mily, you won't be alo­ne, not ever aga­in. De­lan­zas are no­to­ri­o­us for the­ir lo­yalty. In fact, with the am­ne­sia, you ne­ed us."

  He had pa­used. She was hug­ging her­self, ex­pec­ting him to say, "And you ne­ed me." But he didn't. He shif­ted aga­in. "You're not ma­king a mis­ta­ke, Eli­za­beth."

  She wan­ted mo­re than words from him-un­less they we­re the right words. "And you?" Her he­art was thun­de­ring. "Are you no­to­ri­o­usly lo­yal, too?"

  "And me," he sa­id som­berly. "I'm a De­lan­za, too."

  Her he­art be­at har­der, fas­ter. Was he ma­king her a pro­mi­se? The idea of ha­ving his lo­yalty was over­w­hel­ming. It was a po­wer­ful lu­re. Yet she co­uld not qu­ite get over the fact that Ed­ward might ha­ve be­en fo­is­ted on her had Sla­de not ag­re­ed to marry her, re­gar­d­less of what Sla­de had sa­id.

  "I don't know," she whis­pe­red.

  "You we­re en­ga­ged to James, you knew that, but you ag­re­ed to marry me. What wo­uld ha­ve be­en the dif­fe­ren­ce if you ag­re­ed to marry Ed­ward?"

  She lo­oked at Sla­de, trem­b­ling. Did she da­re res­pond trut­h­ful­ly? He was mar­rying her for her mo­ney. How co­uld she tell him that she was mar­rying him for the pro­mi­se of the fu­tu­re? His eyes se­emed black in the sha­dows of dusk. Black, but so in­ten­se. "I wo­uldn't ha­ve ag­re­ed to marry Ed­ward."

  He didn't mo­ve. "Why not?"

  It was a pa­in­ful ad­mis­si­on. "He's not you," she ma­na­ged softly.

  Sla­de didn't even blink. It was his cue, but he did not ta­ke it. He tur­ned his he­ad away, sta­ring God knew whe­re. He did not of­fer her ho­pe.

  Re­gi­na al­most mo­aned, pe­ri­lo­usly dis­t­ra­ught. "Lord, I f-fe­el li­ke a b-bag of oats." Her he­ad swam. The­re was so much de­si­re, and so much pa­in. She had to think, sort out this mess, be­fo­re it was too la­te, but she co­uldn't think cle­arly now. She tur­ned, an­xi­o­us to le­ave him.

  He ca­ught her, ta­king her lo­osely in his arms, ca­using the ho­pe­ful­ness and the wis­hing to spin diz­zily out of con­t­rol. "Lady, you are the far­t­hest thing from a bag of oats I ha­ve ever se­en."

  The­ir ga­zes loc­ked. Very na­tu­ral­ly, Re­gi­na's hands set­tled on his shirt, pres­sing aga­inst the rock-hard mus­c­le of his chest. She did not me­an to to­uch him and she did not me­an to cling, but she was do­ing both.

  Her sen­ses we­re only pe­rip­he­ral­ly awa­re of the stars and the song of the sea and the scent of the sum­mer blo­oms. She was in Sla­de's arms. She co­uld not lo­ok away from him. Fi­nal­ly he was of­fe­ring her so­met­hing of him­self. Gre­edily, she wo­uld ta­ke wha­te­ver he ga­ve her. "B-but that's h-how I fe­el. Li­ke go­ods. I-it's aw­ful."

  "I'm sorry," he sa­id ro­ughly. He le­aned to­ward her. Re­gi­na fro­ze, eyes wi­de, thin­king he was go­ing to kiss her. Des­pi­te her se­cond tho­ughts, her body re­ac­ted with en­t­hu­si­asm. But kis­ses we­re not his in­ten­ti­on. Low and in­ten­se, he spo­ke. "I'll be a go­od hus­band. At le­ast, I'll try to be. I won't… I won't ma­ke you un­hap­py. Not on pur­po­se, an­y­way."

  She was stun­ned. In­s­tinct told her that she was get­ting a pro­mi­se from this man that he had ne­ver gi­ven be­fo­re-and that he wo­uld ne­ver gi­ve aga­in. Any bat­tle she had be­en wa­ging with her­self was lost. She grip­ped his shirt. "And-I will be a go­od wi­fe to you."

  His fa­ce was clo­se eno­ugh to hers that des­pi­te the dar­k­ness-and night was set­tling over them ra­pidly now-she co­uld see the bla­ze le­ap in his eyes. His po­wer­ful palms al­most crus­hed the de­li­ca­te bo­nes of her sho­ul­ders. Ex­hi­la­ra­ti­on swept thro­ugh her. They had just ma­de a pact, and al­t­ho­ugh it was in­com­p­le­te, it was a pro­mi­se for the fu­tu­re, for the­ir fu­tu­re, a fu­tu­re she knew wo­uld be glo­ri­o­us. She stra­ined to­ward him on tip­toe. She wan­ted his kiss. She wan­ted anot­her kiss li­ke the one he had gi­ven her on the be­ach that day, a kiss both po­wer­ful and in­ti­ma­te, a kiss both ago­ni­zing and elec­t­rif­ying. She cra­ved him, not just with her body, but with her he­art and so­ul.

  He sta­red down at her, ten­si­on stra­ining his fe­atu­res. His eyes we­re even brig­h­ter than they had be­en the in­s­tant be­fo­re. Be­ne­ath her fin­ger­tips, she felt his he­art po­un­ding in a mad gal­lop. Re­gi­na trem­b­led, kno­wing that be­fo­re she to­ok anot­her bre­ath his mo­uth wo­uld be on hers.

  "Dam­mit, Eli­za­beth." He drop­ped his hands ab­ruptly, and just as ab­ruptly, he mo­ved away from her.

  Re­gi­na co­uld not un­der­s­tand why he had not kis­sed her. She was unab­le to mo­ve, fil­led with shock and di­sap­po­in­t­ment.

  "You're pla­ying with fi­re, lady," he sa­id, stal­king away from her. He cir­c­led the fo­un­ta­in, not on­ce but twi­ce.

  She wat­c­hed him. Aga­in he re­min­ded her of the ca­ged ti­ger she had s
e­en in the zoo. His ri­gid stri­des hin­ted at a hot energy, at an im­mi­nent ex­p­lo­si­on. "What do­es that me­an?"

  He pa­used, legs bra­ced, hands clen­c­hed in­to fists. He had put the fo­un­ta­in bet­we­en them. "Bet­ter you don't know."

  Re­gi­na had not ce­ased sha­king. Her next words ca­me un­bid­den, sur­p­ri­sing not just him, but her­self. "Don't you want to kiss me aga­in?"

  "No." He was sud­denly, inex­p­li­cably, fu­ri­o­us. She wat­c­hed him whirl ac­ross the co­ur­t­yard and slam in­to the ho­use, in­to his bed­ro­om, as for­ce­ful as a hur­ri­ca­ne. The he­avy oak do­ors thun­de­red be­hind him.

  She ne­arly col­lap­sed aga­inst the ro­ugh sto­ne wall. She sta­red af­ter him, sha­king har­der than be­fo­re. Now what had she do­ne? What co­uld she ha­ve pos­sibly do­ne to bring on such an­ger? He co­uld not be angry be­ca­use she had wan­ted a kiss. He had wan­ted one too, she was al­most cer­ta­in of it. Was it pos­sib­le that he was trying to be a gen­t­le­man, trying to be ho­no­rab­le, trying to avo­id to­uc­hing her un­til the­ir wed­ding night?

  The­re was no ot­her ex­p­la­na­ti­on. Re­gi­na sho­uld ha­ve la­ug­hed, she sho­uld ha­ve be­en happy with such con­si­de­ra­ti­on, but in­s­te­ad, she cho­ked on a lump in her thro­at. Mo­ments ago she had be­en so cer­ta­in that the­ir fu­tu­re wo­uld be glo­ri­o­us. Now, she wasn't qu­ite so su­re. Sla­de was not go­ing to be an easy man to get to know, not on any le­vel.

  But she knew her duty. And re­gar­d­less of how dif­fi­cult it might be, she wo­uld be pa­ti­ent, en­d­les­sly pa­ti­ent, if that was what it to­ok. And it daw­ned on her that she co­uld cul­ti­va­te the sof­t­ness and sen­si­ti­vity he had da­red to re­ve­al mo­re than on­ce, cul­ti­va­te it gently and ca­re­ful­ly, the way one wo­uld tend the most pre­ci­o­us and fra­gi­le of exo­tic blo­oms. She wo­uld en­co­ura­ge him to le­ave his hard ed­ges and an­ger be­hind.