Secrets

by Brenda Joyce

"I lo­ve you, Re­gi­na. Sa­ying 'I told you so' is the last thing on my mind."

  Re­gi­na co­ve­red her fa­ce with her hands. "I still lo­ve him, al­t­ho­ugh things are so bad now and I don't know why. But I know that we can work thro­ugh this. I know I can ma­ke him hap­py-that we can be happy." She ra­ised her he­ad to sta­re de­fi­antly at her fat­her. "If you've co­me out he­re to glo­at, if you think that I'm go­ing to run out on him just be­ca­use ever­y­t­hing isn't per­fect, then you're wrong."

  "I did not co­me out he­re to glo­at," Nic­ho­las sa­id. 'Yo­ur mot­her is right, Re­gi­na, you ha­ve grown up sin­ce we last saw you."

  "That's right, Fat­her. In En­g­land I was a na­ive, inex­pe­ri­en­ced girl, a ni­ce eno­ugh girl, but a spo­iled one. No mo­re. I am go­ing to stay and fight for what I want, and what I want is Sla­de."

  "You know, I'm pro­ud of you."

  Re­gi­na gas­ped. "What did you say?"

  "I'm pro­ud of you. Per­haps you do sin­ce­rely lo­ve this man. The da­ug­h­ter I left be­hind in Te­xas wo­uld not ha­ve wit­h­s­to­od the ad­ver­sity you ha­ve, or the ad­ver­sity now be­set­ting you. I ba­rely re­cog­ni­ze you, Re­gi­na."

  "I ta­ke that as a com­p­li­ment." 'It is a com­p­li­ment. You ha­ve chan­ged, be­co­me strong, tho­ugh, it's so hard to let go. Yo­ur mot­her has be­en har­ping on me that I ha­ve to let you li­ve yo­ur own li­fe, ma­ke yo­ur own de­ci­si­ons, whet­her go­od or bad. I'm used to be­ing in con­t­rol, but I'm go­ing to let go." What are you sa­ying?" she cri­ed.

  Nic­ho­las sig­hed. "I am apo­lo­gi­zing. I fe­ar I ove­rac­ted to yo­ur mar­ri­age when I ar­ri­ved in town and was con­f­ron­ted so ab­ruptly with it. But at that ti­me I was ex­pec­ting to be gre­eted by my yo­ung da­ug­h­ter, not by a full-grown, ma­tu­re wo­man. I will res­pect wha­te­ver de­ci­si­on you ma­ke re­gar­ding yo­ur mar­ri­age."

  She was spe­ec­h­less.

  Nic­ho­las to­ok her hands. "In ot­her words, I will sup­port yo­ur de­ci­si­on to re­ma­in with Sla­de De­lan­za."

  "Fat­her," she cri­ed, hug­ging him. "Thank you so much; for ha­ving fa­ith in me."

  "You de­ser­ve it. Of co­ur­se, I'm not go­ing to wit­h­hold yo­ur in­he­ri­tan­ce, eit­her."

  Re­gi­na hug­ged him aga­in. "Of co­ur­se! I knew you' wo­uld co­me aro­und. Thank you, Fat­her. Not just for the mo­ney Sla­de ne­eds, but for trus­ting me to do the right thing."

  They ar­ri­ved ho­me at mid­night, ha­ving left the ga­la; in full swing. Re­gi­na's spi­rits had lif­ted. Her fat­her had co­me aro­und, so much so­oner than she had tho­ught he wo­uld. She was ela­ted. Now she truly felt li­ke ce­leb­ra­ting. But when she tri­ed to ta­ke Sla­de's hand, he wo­uld not let her.

  When they we­re alo­ne in the­ir bed­ro­om he wit­h­d­rew,' wal­king away from her to fa­ce the nig­ht-dar­ke­ned win­dow. Re­gi­na de­ci­ded that now was not the ti­me to dis­cuss her fat­her or her in­he­ri­tan­ce. But it was de­fi­ni­tely the ti­me to dis­cuss the­ir re­la­ti­on­s­hip. "Sla­de, can we talk?"

  He tur­ned slowly. His fa­ce was grim. "Yes, let's talk."

  She went still. "Why do I ha­ve the fe­eling that you're go­ing to say so­met­hing I don't want to he­ar?"

  "You know me well."

  "Sla­de, I don't know you half as well as I long to."

  He to­ok a bre­ath. '’This isn't easy. I don't want to hurt you. You may not be­li­eve this, but I ha­ve tho­ught this out at gre­at length." He se­emed in­ca­pab­le of con­ti­nu­ing.

  She was ter­ri­fi­ed. For she knew, in­s­tin­c­ti­vely, what was co­ming. "No."

  "Re­gi­na, this was a mis­ta­ke from the very be­gin­ning."

  "No," she ma­na­ged, "no, don't start, it was not a mis­ta­ke-I lo­ve you!"

  He flin­c­hed. "Re­gi­na, we can­not go on li­ke this. I can­not go on li­ke this."

  She cri­ed out.

  "It wo­uld be best if you mo­ved back to yo­ur un­c­le's to­mor­row," he sa­id firmly, stri­ding to the do­or. "To­night I'll sle­ep in the study." He pa­used. "I'm sorry."

  "No." She fi­nal­ly fo­und her vo­ice, al­t­ho­ugh it was high and des­pe­ra­te. "Don't be ab­surd. I lo­ve you. We ha­ve be­en ha­ving a few bad days, that's all, I-"

  He grip­ped the do­or­k­nob, his knuc­k­les whi­te. "It's too la­te. I fi­led for a di­vor­ce to­day."

  Part Three

  Revelations

  Chapter 27

  Over one month la­ter, Sla­de loc­ked up the ho­use on Go­ugh Stre­et. He was fi­nal­ly re­tur­ning to Mi­ra­mar. It had ta­ken him a month to dis­po­se of his af­fa­irs for Char­les and to find a rep­la­ce­ment and ac­qu­a­int that gen­t­le­man with his res­pon­si­bi­li­ti­es. Not only had he loc­ked up the ho­use which he had ren­ted for so many ye­ars, but he was han­ding the keys back over to the lan­d­lord. The­re we­re too many me­mo­ri­es the­re now and he didn't plan on ever re­tur­ning. But even so, he knew the me­mo­ri­es wo­uld ha­unt him for a li­fe­ti­me.

  Re­gi­na had left him. She had left him the night of the ga­la, shortly af­ter he had told her that he had fi­led for a di­vor­ce. That was a night he wo­uld ne­ver for­get, one he wis­hed he co­uld for­get. For when her shock had sub­si­ded, the­re was fury-so much fury.

  "How da­re you for­sa­ke our vows!" she scre­amed. A se­cond la­ter she had thrown a va­se at him. Any tem­per she had ever had she had al­ways con­t­rol­led with lad­y­li­ke ri­gor, but now she cast all such con­si­de­ra­ti­ons asi­de.

  He flin­c­hed, shoc­ked at the dis­p­lay but sa­ying not­hing be­ca­use the­re wasn't much mo­re he co­uld pos­sibly say. "You are not­hing but a co­ward, Sla­de De­lan­za, turn- ing ta­il at the slig­h­test sign of tro­ub­le! And you are al­so a fo­ol, be­ca­use we co­uld be happy, we co­uld be so very happy, if you wo­uld only let us!" She was sob­bing. "But I don't ha­ve eno­ugh strength for the two of us, not an­y­mo­re. God­damn you!"

  She had rus­hed away, run­ning down the sta­irs, stum­b­ling on the skirts of her ball gown. Sla­de fo­und him­self ra­cing af­ter her, torn in two, des­pe­ra­tely wan­ting to call her back. But she was al­re­ady fle­e­ing thro­ugh the front do­or, wit­ho­ut pa­using even for a co­at, and di­sap­pe­aring in­to the night.

  Sla­de wan­ted to go af­ter her. He'd wan­ted to sho­ut the truth at her, that he lo­ved her with all of his he­art. He was re­ady, so re­ady, to for­get his re­sol­ve. But ima­ges of that eve­ning dan­ced in his he­ad, ima­ges of her in her co­utu­re gown with her fa­bu­lo­us pe­arls, wal­t­zing in the arms of ban­kers and po­li­ti­ci­ans, flit­ting thro­ugh the crowd, a be­a­uti­ful and per­fect so­ci­al but­terfly. He did not call her back. He did not go af­ter her. It was bet­ter this way for her, for she was re­tur­ning to the li­fe she had be­en born to; so­on she wo­uld marry her du­ke. And it was bet­ter for him. It didn't fe­el bet­ter-his he­ad ac­hed and his he­art hurt-but the pa­in wo­uld be so much wor­se ye­ars from now, when she wal­ked out on him.

  Poc­ke­ting the key, Sla­de sta­red up at the empty, shut­te­red ho­use. God, a month had go­ne by but the pa­in was still so raw. He felt as if he we­re ble­eding in­si­de. Wo­uld he ever get over it? Wo­uld he ever get over her?

  He wal­ked down the front steps, his vi­si­on sus­pi­ci­o­usly blurry, to the hi­red car­ri­age wa­iting on the stre­et. Sla­de saw that Kim had al­re­ady lo­aded the­ir bags. Usu­al­ly Kim was hop­ping with ex­ci­te­ment when em­bar­king on a trip with Sla­de, but not to­day. He had be­en un­c­ha­rac­te­ris­ti­cal­ly som­ber ever sin­ce Re­gi­na had left. Sla­de had not be­en ab­le to hi­de his tor­ment from the lit­tle boy, no mat­ter how hard he had tri­ed. And Kim was such a so­ur­ce of com­fort, dog­ging his steps and rus­hing
to do his bid­ding as if fet­c­hing the new­s­pa­per might end Sla­de's mi­sery and bring light in­to the dar­k­ness of his li­fe. Sla­de didn't know how he wo­uld ha­ve sur­vi­ved the past we­eks wit­ho­ut Kim un­der­fo­ot and wit­ho­ut his cle­ver lit­tle ploys, all aimed at ma­king Sla­de smi­le. And Kim had ma­de him smi­le, mo­re than on­ce, des­pi­te it all.

  But Kim was mo­re up­set than Sla­de had gu­es­sed, be­ca­use one night Sla­de fo­und him crying in his bed. Sla­de was stric­ken with gu­ilt for dis­t­res­sing the child who was li­ke a son to him. But Kim con­fes­sed that he mis­sed "mis­see wi­fe" al­so. Sla­de had cri­ed then too, but sec­retly, so that Kim wo­uld not see.

  Now he ma­na­ged a mostly che­er­ful smi­le for Kim's be­ne­fit as he ap­pro­ac­hed. "Okay, pal," he sa­id. "We've got one stop to ma­ke, to say our go­od-byes to Char­les and Xan­d­ria, and we're on our way."

  Kim re­tur­ned his smi­le he­si­tantly. "To­night we be at Mi'a'ma'?"

  Sla­de slid his hand in­to the boy's cap of silky black ha­ir. "You bet." He lif­ted him in­to the car­ri­age, jum­ping up him­self. "To­night we'll be at Mi­ra­mar." He sig­na­led the dri­ver and they we­re off.

  Sla­de ten­sed. They we­re go­ing east on Ca­li­for­nia Stre­et, and co­ming in­to vi­ew was the D'Archands' ho­me. The­re was no re­ason for him to ten­se up, be­ca­use she was not the­re and he was well awa­re of it. Too la­te, he wis­hed he had told the dri­ver to ta­ke a dif­fe­rent ro­ute.

  His hand slid in­to the poc­ket of his su­it jac­ket. His fin­gers slid over a let­ter so worn it was fal­ling to pi­eces. He had re­ad it a tho­usand ti­mes, he wo­uld re­ad it a tho­usand mo­re. It was, of co­ur­se, from his wi­fe.

  De­ar Sla­de, I am go­ing ho­me. Per­haps one day you will find the co­ura­ge to co­me ho­me, too. Yo­ur wi­fe, Re­gi­na.

  The no­te had ar­ri­ved fo­ur days af­ter he had told her he was di­vor­cing her and she had left his ho­use. Upon re­ading it, he had be­en stric­ken. He had al­most gi­ven in to his im­pul­ses and run to her un­c­le's and as­ked her to co­me back. Of co­ur­se, he was stron­ger than that. He was mo­re li­ke James than he had ever tho­ught; he was sel­f­less and nob­le af­ter all.

  He knew she had re­tur­ned to En­g­land with her pa­rents and that they we­re no lon­ger in the city. She had go­ne ho­me.

  But even whi­le he knew she had re­tur­ned to En­g­land, he bro­oded abo­ut the fact that she had ne­ver go­ne for­ward with his mo­ti­on for a di­vor­ce. Tec­h­ni­cal­ly they we­re still mar­ri­ed even if they we­re se­pa­ra­ted by a vast oce­an. She had sig­ned the no­te yo­ur wi­fe, Re­gi­na, a bla­tant re­min­der of the fact. What did it me­an? It bot­he­red him. It bot­he­red him be­ca­use sec­retly he co­uld not help clin­ging to that fact, as if it we­re so­me sort of li­fe­li­ne.

  He told him­self to be lo­gi­cal. She had left the city fu­ri­o­us with him, fu­ri­o­us and hurt. The­re had not be­en ti­me for her to so­li­cit law­yers and le­gal ad­vi­ce and to de­al with the pa­per­work and bu­re­a­uc­racy ne­ces­sary to fi­na­li­ze a di­vor­ce. Every day he ex­pec­ted an in­qu­iry from her law­yers in Lon­don. No in­qu­iry ca­me.

  He bro­oded, too, upon the rest of her use of lan­gu­age in the bri­ef let­ter. Why hadn't she sa­id that he wo­uld one day re­turn ho­me? She had sa­id he wo­uld one day co­me ho­me, as if he wo­uld be co­ming to the­ir ho­me, or as if he wo­uld be co­ming ho­me to her. She had al­so spo­ken of his ne­eding co­ura­ge to do so, when her last par­ting words had be­en to ac­cu­se him of be­ing a co­ward. It did not ma­ke sen­se. It al­most ma­de him think the im­pos­sib­le. He re­fu­sed to suc­cumb to fan­ta­si­es. She had go­ne ho­me to En­g­land to marry her du­ke-she was not at Mi­ra­mar, wa­iting for him with pa­ti­en­ce, de­vo­ti­on, and lo­ve. But if such a fan­tasy we­re true, he knew he wo­uld not be ab­le to send her away a se­cond ti­me.

  But it wasn't true; he was a lo­ve­sick fo­ol, and the mo­re he in­dul­ged in day­d­re­ams, the wor­se it got. He had to try and for­get her, but that was li­ke as­king the sun and the mo­on and the stars to di­sap­pe­ar.

  God, how he mis­sed her.

  Char­les and Xan­d­ria knew he was co­ming and they we­re wa­iting for him. Ed­ward was with them. Sla­de was not sur­p­ri­sed. Des­pi­te his own de­so­la­ti­on, he was awa­re that his brot­her was ke­eping com­pany with Xan­d­ria. The­re was at le­ast a ten-ye­ar dif­fe­ren­ce bet­we­en them, and Sla­de co­uld not fat­hom what was go­ing on in Xan­d­ria's mind. But whe­re on­ce he might ha­ve jud­ged her, he had no mo­re jud­g­ments to ma­ke. He ho­ped that Ed­ward's fri­en­d­s­hip might ma­ke Xan­d­ria re­ali­ze that it was ti­me for her to find a man to se­ri­o­usly lo­ve, and to marry.

  Char­les was som­ber; Xan­d­ria was te­ary-eyed and snif­fled in­to a han­d­ker­c­hi­ef. "I'm not crying be­ca­use I'm sel­fish," Xan­d­ria sa­id, hug­ging Sla­de. "But of co­ur­se I will miss you. I'm crying be­ca­use I am glad that you are fi­nal­ly go­ing ho­me whe­re you be­long."

  "To­uchй," Ed­ward sa­id em­p­ha­ti­cal­ly.

  Sla­de step­ped back from Xan­d­ria. "I fe­el I owe it to Re­gi­na."

  The ot­hers we­re star­t­led in­to si­len­ce.

  Sla­de red­de­ned. "The one thing she co­uldn't stand was my fig­h­ting with Rick. Call it her le­gacy if you will. But I am go­ing ho­me, and Rick and I are go­ing to set­tle things on­ce and for all."

  Char­les step­ped for­ward. "It's abo­ut ti­me, Sla­de. Try not to jud­ge yo­ur fat­her too harshly. Re­mem­ber, even fat­hers ma­ke mis­ta­kes."

  Sla­de gri­ma­ced. "It won't be easy, but I am re­al­ly go­ing to try."

  Char­les em­b­ra­ced him. "The­re's not­hing you can't do when you put yo­ur mind to it. You are as de­ter­mi­ned as you are smart. The next ti­me I see you I fully ex­pect yo­ur dif­fe­ren­ces with Rick to be a thing of the past."

  Sla­de wasn't qu­ite as ho­pe­ful as Char­les. "Well, we'll see. Char­les, I want to thank you aga­in for the lo­an. You can't ha­ve any idea how much it me­ans to me." He me­ant it. He was no lon­ger thin­king of sel­ling the He­nes­sy pla­ce to ge­ne­ra­te mo­re cash. Re­gi­na had lo­ved it. He re­cal­led all too well how ada­mant she had be­en aga­inst his sel­ling it. That was her le­gacy to him, too.

  Edward ac­com­pa­ni­ed him to the ra­il­ro­ad sta­ti­on. They left Xan­d­ria and Char­les wa­ving fa­re­well on the stre­et. Sla­de lo­oked at his brot­her, se­ated be­si­de him in the car­ri­age. "Why do I get the fe­eling you ha­ve so­met­hing on yo­ur mind?"

  "Be­ca­use I do. When are you go­ing to get smart and go af­ter her?"

  Sla­de ten­sed.

  "You lo­ve her. It's ob­vi­o­us. Don't be stu­pid and stub­born. I don't know what hap­pe­ned or why she left you, but go af­ter her."

  "Don't get in­vol­ved in this," Sla­de war­ned.

  "But I am in­vol­ved, up to my eye­bal­ls."

  He lo­oked at his brot­her very ca­re­ful­ly. "What do­es that me­an?"

  "I knew all along who she re­al­ly was."

  Sla­de sta­red, shoc­ked.

  Edward to­uc­hed his arm. "I didn't tell you be­ca­use I knew that you ne­eded her. You ne­ed her. Ad­mit it. At le­ast ad­mit the truth."

  "All right!" Sla­de was fu­ri­o­us. "I do ne­ed her, but she do­esn't ne­ed me. Do­es that sa­tisfy you?"

  "No! That wo­man is in lo­ve with you, you jac­kass, and she has be­en from the word go!"

  "Le­ave it alo­ne."

  "No. I won't. I didn't tell you who she was be­ca­use I wan­ted the two of you to marry and find each ot­her and find hap­pi­ness. But you had to push her away. Don't you un­der­s­tand?" Ed­ward cri­ed. "After ten ye­ars, I tho­ught to ato­
ne for my sins, I tho­ught I'd fi­nal­ly be free of the gu­ilt!"

  "Ato­ne for yo­ur sins? Be free of the gu­ilt? What gu­ilt?"

  "I've ne­ver for­gi­ven myself for ca­using you to run away in the first pla­ce."

  Sla­de was slack-jawed.

  "I cha­sed you away from Mi­ra­mar. Af­ter that night, you ne­ver ca­me back. When Re­gi­na ap­pe­ared in our li­ves, with you now Rick's he­ir, it se­emed that fi­nal­ly you we­re go­ing to re­turn to us. She se­emed li­ke a gift from fa­te. For me, hol­ding my si­len­ce abo­ut her sec­ret was a way of ma­king up for all tho­se ye­ars you we­re so un­hap­py."

  "You god­dam­med fo­ol," Sla­de cri­ed. "My run­ning away had not­hing to do with you! I can't be­li­eve you've be­en bla­ming yo­ur­self all the­se ye­ars!" He was hor­ri­fi­ed.

  Edward held up a hand. "Lo­gic has not­hing to do with the fe­elings a small boy has. An­y­way, it do­esn't mat­ter. You mat­ter. You de­ser­ve to be happy; you ne­ed her. Go af­ter her, dam­mit. Find her and bring her back to Mi­ra­mar so you can be happy and I can fe­el I've pa­id for my mis­ta­kes."

  "You so­no­fa­bitch," Sla­de sa­id, de­eply dis­t­res­sed. "It wasn't yo­ur fa­ult. So­me­how you ha­ve to be­li­eve that. And-I am go­ing ho­me, and it's for go­od. But as far as Re­gi­na is con­cer­ned, know this. She's happy now, and that's mo­re im­por­tant to me than my own hap­pi­ness. It wo­uld ha­ve ne­ver wor­ked, Ed."

  "God," Ed­ward sa­id, "you are a fo­ol. May­be I'll ha­ve to ta­ke mat­ters in­to my own han­ds-aga­in."

  "Don't you da­re," Sla­de sa­id ter­sely.

  Edward ra­ised his hands in mock de­fe­at. But the­re was no sign of sub­mis­si­on in his eyes.

  Sla­de had wi­red ahe­ad to Tem­p­le­ton so that when he ar­ri­ved at Mi­ra­mar with Kim it wo­uld not be a sur­p­ri­se. But Sla­de had not ex­pec­ted his fat­her to walk out of the ho­use to gre­et him as he jum­ped down from the buck-bo­ard. Rick was smi­ling, al­be­it so­mew­hat ca­uti­o­usly.