Secrets

by Brenda Joyce

  "She he­re? I want to say hel­lo to the lit­tle lady."

  "No."

  "She's not he­re?" Rick sto­od, dis­ma­yed. "You didn't gi­ve her the di­vor­ce, did you?"

  Sla­de clen­c­hed his te­eth. "No, I didn't."

  Rick was re­li­eved. "Don't for­get she holds the key to Mi­ra­mar's fu­tu­re."

  "I ha­ven't for­got­ten. You knew all along, didn't you?-That she was a Bragg he­iress, not Eli­za­beth Sin­c­la­ir?"

  Rick's eyes wi­de­ned. "I did not!"

  Sla­de de­ci­ded to de­ba­te the is­sue, which ran­k­led. "I don't be­li­eve you, Rick."

  Rick threw up his hands. "Dam­mit, all right! I gu­es­sed."

  "You know what?" Sla­de was li­vid. "You are a son of a bitch."

  "I did it for you!"

  "You did it for yo­ur­self. You did it for Mi­ra­mar!"

  "I al­so did it for me and for Mi­ra­mar," Rick told him firmly. "But if she wasn't such a per­fect lit­tle lady, with you hot to trot on her he­els, I wo­uldn't ha­ve do­ne it."

  Sla­de sta­red.

  "You ne­ed that gal, boy, an' we both know it! You ne­ed a pro­per lit­tle lady for a wi­fe, and a few cu­te lit­tle kids, too. You ne­ed the who­le kit an' ca­bo­od­le an' you ha­ve for ye­ars."

  Sla­de's eyes nar­ro­wed. Rick was right, so god­damn right. He ne­eded Re­gi­na Shel­ton. He ne­eded her pro­per man­ners, her go­od bre­eding, her ge­ne­ro­sity, her com­pas­si­on and her smi­les. He ne­eded her pas­si­on. He ne­eded her, pe­ri­od. And if she wo­uld gi­ve him a fa­mily… his he­art lur­c­hed. But it was all such a big if.

  Sla­de cros­sed his arms. "I find it hard to be­li­eve that you wo­uld play mat­c­h­ma­ker."

  Rick grin­ned. "Well, I did. So be­li­eve what you want. But if you tell me you don't li­ke her, I'll tell you you're a li­ar."

  Uncom­for­tab­le with the idea of his fat­her ac­ting with an­y­t­hing ot­her than sel­fish mo­ti­va­ti­on, Sla­de chan­ged the su­bj­ect. "Char­les of­fe­red us a lo­an."

  "No."

  Sla­de was well awa­re that Rick wo­uld ha­te the idea of be­ing be­hol­den to Char­les. Bor­ro­wing from his fri­end still bot­he­red him, but not as much as the idea of ta­king his wi­fe's mo­ney. "I'm go­ing to ac­cept, un­less you can think of anot­her way to get eno­ugh cash to pay back the banks and ope­ra­te for the next fi­ve ye­ars."

  "No, god­dam­mit!" Rick was fu­ri­o­us. "I won't ta­ke a god­damn cent from Char­lie Mann." He tos­sed down his drink, cal­ming. "Yo­ur lit­tle wi­fe is an he­iress."

  Sla­de sa­id not­hing. It wasn't Rick's bu­si­ness that he wo­uld not ta­ke Re­gi­na's funds. Rick had bam­bo­oz­led him many ti­mes, so he felt lit­tle re­mor­se in ma­king this de­al with Char­les on the sly.

  "Whe­re is she?" Rick as­ked.

  "She's sta­ying with her re­la­ti­ves, the D'Archands."

  "Well, that's gre­at! A wi­fe is sup­po­sed to li­ve with her hus­band. You ha­ve to patch things up with her so­on, boy." Rick left it un­sa­id that he was co­un­ting on her in­he­ri­tan­ce and co­un­ting down the days be­fo­re fo­rec­lo­su­re.

  Sla­de co­iled up tight. De­ep in­si­de he wan­ted not­hing mo­re than to ha­ve Re­gi­na li­ving with him. He had al­most as­ked her if she had chan­ged her mind abo­ut a di­vor­ce, had al­most as­ked her to mo­ve in with him. But he hadn't. That wo­uld be the fi­nal step, com­p­le­ting the­ir re­con­ci­li­ati­on. It wasn't the do­ubt that had pre­ven­ted him from as­king her to re­turn to him-it was the fe­ar. "Lis­ten, old man, don't get on my back. Yo­ur in­te­rest in my mar­ri­age may or may not be one hun­d­red per­cent sel­fish, but it is my mar­ri­age and I'll han­d­le it my way."

  "Are you han­d­ling it?" Rick as­ked. "I don't see how you can be han­d­ling it with the two of you li­ving apart!"

  Sla­de to­ok a sip of the bo­ur­bon. He re­ma­ined calm with an ef­fort. He re­al­ly didn't want this ad­di­ti­onal he­adac­he right now. Sa­ying not­hing, he sum­mo­ned up Re­gi­na's lo­vely ima­ge. It was in­fi­ni­tely so­ot­hing.

  Rick se­emed puz­zled at his fa­ilu­re to res­pond. "So why isn't she he­re, whe­re she be­longs? Or rat­her, why aren't the two of you at Mi­ra­mar, whe­re you both be­long?"

  Sla­de set his glass down. "Can you re­al­ly see her li­ving at Mi­ra­mar? For any length of ti­me?"

  Rick frow­ned at him. "What kind of qu­es­ti­on is that? Of co­ur­se I can. What the hell is go­ing on in that he­ad of yo­urs now?"

  Sla­de had the ur­ge to tell Rick ever­y­t­hing, to spill his guts, but that was in­sa­ne. "She's not exactly a co­untry girl."

  "So what? I ha­ven't met a so­ul yet that didn't fall in lo­ve with Mi­ra­mar, so­oner or la­ter."

  Sla­de sa­id not­hing. Rick was pre­j­udi­ced, but then, when it ca­me to Mi­ra­mar, so was he.

  "Lo­ok," Rick sa­id, jab­bing his fin­ger at him, "don't go til­ting at win­d­mil­ls. Bring her ho­me an' it will all work out. She's yo­ur wi­fe now, or do I ha­ve to re­mind you of that, too? You both be­long at Mi­ra­mar, with me, not up he­re wor­king for so­me god­damn stran­ger!"

  "You don't ha­ve to re­mind me," Sla­de sa­id grimly.

  "Su­re as hell do­esn't se­em that way. Ha­ve you even tal­ked to her sin­ce she ar­ri­ved in the city?"

  "I've tal­ked to her." Sla­de co­uldn't help it, he smi­led, re­mem­be­ring. "I've se­en her." He ac­tu­al­ly vo­lun­te­ered in­for­ma­ti­on, sur­p­ri­sing him­self. "We spent the day to­get­her. I to­ok her to the Cliff Ho­use for lunch."

  Rick be­amed. "That's go­od to he­ar!" He ca­me for­ward. "Spe­aking of fo­od, I'm star­ved. Let's go get a bi­te to eat."

  "I just ate," Sla­de sa­id. "But I'm go­ing back to the of­fi­ce. I'll drop you whe­re­ver you want to go." He tur­ned and stro­de out of the ro­om. His back was to his fat­her so he did not see Rick's di­sap­po­in­t­ment.

  Re­gi­na lo­oked at the small boy stan­ding in front of her, hol­ding out a no­te. "From Sla­de?"

  "Yes, mis­see, from Mis­ta Sla­de." He be­amed.

  Re­gi­na co­uld not smi­le back. Dis­may swept thro­ugh her. Sla­de was al­re­ady la­te. He was sup­po­sed to ha­ve pic­ked her up at half past ten, but it was al­most ele­ven. She didn't ha­ve to re­ad the no­te to know that he was not co­ming af­ter all.

  De­ar Re­gi­na, an emer­gency has ari­sen, re­qu­iring my im­me­di­ate at­ten­ti­on. If I can cle­ar things up, I will call on you to­night. Ho­we­ver, sho­uld you ha­ve ot­her plans, do not can­cel them on my ac­co­unt. Yo­urs, Sla­de.

  She bal­led up the no­te in her hand. Her di­sap­po­in­t­ment was so vast it left her trem­b­ling. She co­uldn't help won­de­ring if the­re had re­al­ly be­en an emer­gency, or if he me­rely pre­fer­red work to her com­pany. Sin­ce she had co­me to the city she had le­ar­ned just how fond of wor­king he was.

  "Mis­see want to send no­te?" the boy as­ked.

  Re­gi­na ba­rely he­ard. Crus­hed, she sho­ok her he­ad. The boy bo­wed and bac­ked out the do­or, then tur­ned and ran down the front steps. She ba­rely saw him as he ve­ered ab­ruptly and ran thro­ugh the gar­dens, duc­king be­ne­ath the hed­ge on­to the­ir ne­ig­h­bor's pro­perty.

  Yes­ter­day had be­en won­der­ful-too won­der­ful, in fact. Af­ter they had left the He­nes­sy pla­ce, Sla­de had ta­ken her to the Cliff Ho­use, whe­re the vi­ews of the Pa­ci­fic we­re stun­ning. They had both be­en unab­le to stop smi­ling and had ga­zed at each ot­her un­til it was un­se­emly. Yet they had not re­al­ly con­ver­sed. Re­gi­na had be­en wa­iting for him to dis­cuss the­ir re­la­ti­on­s­hip, ho­ping he wo­uld bring the su­bj­ect up.

  But he had not as­ked her if she still wan­ted a di­vor­ce.

 
He had not as­ked her to mo­ve in with him.

  He had not as­ked abo­ut the fu­tu­re-the­ir fu­tu­re.

  She had be­en af­ra­id to bro­ach tho­se to­pics her­self. It was not ap­prop­ri­ate; it wo­uld be ter­ribly ag­gres­si­ve. As the man and hus­band, it was up to Sla­de to set the pa­ra­me­ters and ma­ke up the ru­les, it was up to him to de­mand that the­ir es­t­ran­ge­ment end. Yet he hadn't. Af­ter the won­der­ful me­al he had simply ta­ken her ho­me. He had kis­sed her for a long ti­me in the car­ri­age be­fo­re le­aving her at the do­or, and at the ti­me she had tho­ught that he was sin­ce­rely fond of her. Now she won­de­red if it had only be­en evi­den­ce of his pas­si­on for her.

  Re­gi­na tur­ned and sank down on the set­tee in the fo­yer. She co­uld not de­ci­de what to do. She wasn't su­re he wo­uld even call on her that night. His words might ha­ve be­en a smo­ke scre­en. Per­haps he wo­uld be hap­pi­er with se­pa­ra­te li­ving ar­ran­ge­ments. It was do­ne all the ti­me in Lon­don.

  Abruptly she sto­od. She wan­ted a re­al mar­ri­age. She had wan­ted a re­al mar­ri­age from the start, when she had tho­ught her­self to be Eli­za­beth Sin­c­la­ir. She was al­most pre­pa­red to throw con­ven­ti­on to the winds and do what she re­al­ly wan­ted to do-mo­ve in­to his ho­use, even wit­ho­ut his per­mis­si­on. She co­uld not go that far. But she was his wi­fe, and she had cer­ta­in rights. Su­rely he co­uld not be too up­set if she went over the­re to ta­ke a pe­ek at the si­tu­ati­on.

  And the si­tu­ati­on was shoc­king.

  The ho­use­boy let her in. Re­gi­na blin­ked. The hal­lway was so dark in sha­dow that she co­uld ba­rely see.

  "Mis­ta Sla­de no he­ah," the boy sa­id.

  "I know," Re­gi­na sa­id, mo­ving for­ward and snap­ping on a wall-mo­un­ted lamp. "That's much bet­ter."

  She lo­oked aro­und her ca­re­ful­ly. The ho­use was dark and drab; lo­oking at the flo­or, she saw that it was al­so dirty. The hal­lway ne­eded brig­h­te­ning, but that co­uld be do­ne with a fra­med pa­in­ting or two and the ad­di­ti­on of anot­her mo­un­ted lamp. The flo­or was not just smud­ged but ti­red and worn. A go­od wa­xing wo­uld fix that. She be­gan to smi­le.

  She po­ked her he­ad in­to the par­lor. The fur­nis­hings we­re new but ga­rish and the ro­om it­self was stuffy and dark. Re­gi­na swiftly mo­ved to the li­me-co­lo­red dra­pes and ope­ned them. She was glad to see the stre­et be­low and not the brick wall of a ne­ig­h­bo­ring re­si­den­ce. She ope­ned the win­dow, let­ting in the fresh air.

  "I can hep?" the small boy as­ked eagerly.

  "You most cer­ta­inly can. Do­es Sla­de use this ro­om?"

  He sho­ok his he­ad. "Ne­vah."

  Re­gi­na was not sur­p­ri­sed. The dust was an inch thick on all of the fur­ni­tu­re, ex­cept for the small tab­le in front of the so­fa, whe­re two un­fi­nis­hed glas­ses of whis­key sat. "So­me­one was he­re re­cently," she re­mar­ked.

  "Mis­ta Sla­de and fat­ha'."

  "Mr. Mann?"

  "No, Mis­ta Rick."

  Re­gi­na was sur­p­ri­sed. Then she briskly mo­ved for­ward. She pul­led all the dra­pes and ope­ned the ot­her two win­dows. The ro­om un­der­went a re­mar­kab­le tran­s­for­ma­ti­on, brig­h­te­ning con­si­de­rably, but she was far from thro­ugh. Even­tu­al­ly she wo­uld ha­ve to get rid of that hor­rid so­fa, which she wo­uld not even con­tem­p­la­te mo­ving to the He­nes­sy pla­ce, but for now a few ple­asing throw pil­lows wo­uld dis­t­ract one's eye from the too brightly pat­ter­ned gre­en-and-gold fab­ric. The flo­or he­re al­so ne­eded po­lis­hing, and the rug ne­eded a go­od be­ating. She was che­er­ful. She co­uld not, as Sla­de's law­ful wed­ded wi­fe, ig­no­re this si­tu­ati­on.

  She stro­de down the hall and pa­used in the do­or­way of Sla­de's study. The desk was co­ve­red with pa­pers and half a do­zen glass pa­per­we­ights. Bo­oks li­ned the shel­ves on one wall al­t­ho­ugh se­ve­ral we­re on the flo­or, open, pro­bably be­ca­use the­re was no ro­om for them on his desk. The ho­use­boy ho­ve­red be­hind her. He sa­id une­asily, "Mis­ta Sla­de tell me ne­vah to­uch in he­ah. Ne­vah," he em­p­ha­si­zed.

  "Hmm, thank you for the war­ning. What is yo­ur na­me, child?"

  "Kim."

  "And you are Mr. De­lan­za's ho­use­boy?"

  Kim nod­ded as Re­gi­na shut the do­or of the study firmly be­hind them.

  "I sho­uld li­ke to me­et the staff."

  "Staff?"

  "Yes, the staff. Es­pe­ci­al­ly the ma­ids. If they wish to re­ma­in em­p­lo­yed, they are go­ing to start wor­king im­me­di­ately."

  Kim lo­oked un­com­for­tab­le. "No ma­ids."

  "The­re are no ma­ids?"

  "I cle­an."

  "You cle­an?"

  He nod­ded.

  Re­gi­na was not ple­ased. Ho­use­boys did not cle­an. Fru­ga­lity had its li­mi­ta­ti­ons. Sla­de was ta­king ad­van­ta­ge of the si­tu­ati­on. She mo­ved down the hall and glan­ced in­to the di­ning ro­om. It was dark and stuffy, but Re­gi­na qu­ickly drew the dra­pes and ope­ned all of the win­dows. Ob­vi­o­usly her hus­band ne­ver used his di­ning ro­om, eit­her. But whe­re did he eat?

  As they wal­ked down the hall, Kim on her he­els, it oc­cur­red to her that Kim might be ex­pec­ted to cle­an, but he ap­pa­rently did not do his duty. And Sla­de ap­pa­rently did not ca­re.

  "Is the co­ok in the kit­c­hen?" she as­ked, al­re­ady sus­pec­ting the an­s­wer.

  Kim trot­ted af­ter her. "No co­ok."

  Re­gi­na pa­used. "Are you go­ing to tell me that you do the co­oking too?" She wo­uld be very angry with Sla­de if that was the ca­se.

  Kim sho­ok his he­ad. "No can co­ok."

  "So how do­es Mr. De­lan­za di­ne?"

  "Mis­ta no eat he­ah."

  "I see." She was be­gin­ning to get the pic­tu­re. She co­uld just ima­gi­ne what the kit­c­hen must be li­ke. She wo­uld not suc­cumb to fe­ar. She en­te­red bra­vely.

  And was re­li­eved. The­re we­re only two dirty glas­ses in the sink. She so­on saw why the kit­c­hen was not a sham­b­les. The ice­box was empty. The pantry was empty. The cup­bo­ards we­re ba­re too, ex­cept for two pla­tes, two bowls, two cups, and two sa­ucers. She tur­ned to Kim in ama­ze­ment. "Don't you eat he­re?"

  "Mis­ta Sla­de bring me fo­od from res­ta­urants." He grin­ned. "No can co­ok," he re­min­ded her.

  "Might I pre­su­me that Mr. De­lan­za has only you in his em­p­loy?"

  "What?"

  "Are you the only one wor­king for Mr. De­lan­za?"

  He nod­ded eagerly.

  She ma­de a ra­pid men­tal cal­cu­la­ti­on. She wo­uld hi­re one per­ma­nent ma­id and two tem­po­ra­ri­es, one but­ler, and, of co­ur­se, a chef. But when she en­te­red his bed­ro­om and saw the pi­le of dirty clot­hes on the flo­or, she ad­ded a la­un­d­ress to her list. "Who do­es the la­undry, Kim?"

  "Me," he squ­e­aked. "But on Thu'sday. To­day no Thu'sday."

  Re­gi­na nod­ded. "I see." A smi­le wre­at­hed her fa­ce. She must hi­re staff im­me­di­ately. She had her work cut out for her!

  "Mis­see mad?"

  "No," she sa­id, eye­ing the bed now. It was much too small. She blus­hed slightly at her tho­ughts. She wo­uld de­fi­ni­tely ma­ke im­p­ro­ve­ments in this ro­om as well. Sla­de wo­uld hardly be ab­le to com­p­la­in. "Tell me, Kim," she sa­id as they re­tur­ned dow­n­s­ta­irs, "how long ha­ve you wor­ked for Mr. De­lan­za?"

  "Fo­ur ye­ah," he sa­id.

  Re­gi­na fro­ze. "How old are you?"

  "So­on e'even."

  She was in­dig­nant. "Why, that's sin­ful! Sla­de has rob­bed the crad­le!" The boy was so cle­ver she had tho­ught him to be at le­ast thir­te­en.<
br />
  "No bad. Mis­ta Sla­de ve'ey go­od."

  "You li­ke him?"

  "Can do!" He nod­ded en­t­hu­si­as­ti­cal­ly.

  "But what abo­ut yo­ur fa­mily? Don't you miss yo­ur mot­her, yo­ur fat­her, yo­ur brot­hers and sis­ters?"

  Kim sa­id, "Mot­ha' die of clap. Fat­ha' chop-chop. Sis­ta' no-go­od who­re. No brot­ha'. Sla­de fa­mi'ey."

  She sta­red. "What is chop-chop?"

  He ma­de an ima­gi­nary gun with his hand and held it to his he­ad. "Pow!"

  She clo­sed her eyes, mo­ved. Kim was no or­di­nary ho­use­boy; he was a ho­me­less or­p­han Sla­de had ta­ken in. She pat­ted his he­ad. "Are you happy, Kim?"

  "Ve'ey!"

  Sla­de step­ped in­to his ho­use and im­me­di­ately won­de­red if he had so­me­how en­te­red so­me­one el­se's ho­me.

  The hall was brightly il­lu­mi­na­ted in­s­te­ad of lost in sha­dows. Two pretty flo­ral pa­in­tings hung on the wall. The flo­ors sho­ne brightly, gle­aming with wax. He snif­fed sus­pi­ci­o­usly. The­re we­re stran­ge odors ema­na­ting from the ot­her end of the ho­use. So­me­one was co­oking be­ef, he tho­ught, in his kit­c­hen.

  "What the hell?" he grow­led.

  He prow­led for­ward, past the par­lor, then fro­ze. He bac­ked up a step, tur­ning to fa­ce a vi­si­on in yel­low.

  Re­gi­na sat stiffly on the over­s­tuf­fed so­fa in a brig­ht-yel­low eve­ning gown, her hands clas­ped in her lap, her eyes on him.

  Sla­de sta­red. For a mo­ment he felt as if he we­re in a dre­am, a very swe­et dre­am. Af­ter all, in re­ality he did not ha­ve a be­a­uti­ful wi­fe to co­me ho­me to, or a de­cent me­al, or a cle­an, cozy ho­me. But he wasn't dre­aming. His mo­uth cur­ved in a slight, dis­be­li­eving smi­le. "Are you re­al?"

  At his husky te­asing to­ne, Re­gi­na col­lap­sed aga­inst the pil­lows. "Yes."

  He set down his bri­ef­ca­se, sho­ving his hands in his tro­user poc­kets. His he­art was po­un­ding. He lo­oked aro­und the ro­om. The rug was brig­h­ter, the fur­ni­tu­re free of dust; the dra­pes we­re pul­led, re­ve­aling a foggy night, il­lu­mi­na­ted by the gas­lights on the stre­et be­low. He glan­ced at his wi­fe. She was lo­vely, bre­at­h­ta­kingly lo­vely. The so­fa no lon­ger se­emed so ugly with her sit­ting the­re upon it. Then he re­ali­zed she had ador­ned it with do­zens of pil­lows, co­ve­ring the ugly print up­hol­s­tery.