Sea of Secrets: A Novel of Victorian Romantic Suspense

by DeWees, Amanda

  “‘I, Hugo Pembroke, being of sound mind and—’” I broke off in confusion. “Your will?” Had I misjudged him, or failed to see a softer side than I had known him to possess? My father had never seemed the sort of man to let the death of another wake in him any sentiment about his own mortality.

  “What a brilliant conclusion.” He frowned at me as I stared at him, expecting an explanation. “Keep reading, girl, and don’t gape at me in that half-witted fashion.”

  I read to the end. It was very brief: it left the bulk of his estate to his college for the construction of a new wing to be named after him. A few modest bequests went to the servants, and some personal possessions to colleagues. “You must have made this very recently, since Lionel’s death,” I said, surprise—or the sherry—loosening my tongue.

  He took his customary position at the fireplace and blew smoke toward the ceiling. “Correct. I wrote it the day the telegram came. Does anything else strike your lightning intellect—or your self-interest?”

  I folded the will and placed it on his desk. “I am unprovided for, if that is what you mean.”

  My flash of impertinence, for once, he let pass. His expression remained calm as he puffed at his cigar. “Correct again,” he said, in what was for him an almost genial tone. “Really, I am beginning to think I was mistaken in my assessment of your mental capacities. You are showing nearly average intelligence. You will be learning chess next.”

  I had often beaten Lionel at chess, in fact. “May I ask why you have shown me this, Father?” I settled into a chair and folded my hands in my lap.

  “I hoped you would.” He actually smiled. “After twenty-one years of supporting you, I consider my obligations as your father fulfilled. I’m disinheriting you, daughter.”

  I nodded, since he seemed to be expecting me to reply.

  “What’s more”—he tapped cigar ash into the grate—“I’m disowning you.”

  “What?” I exclaimed without thinking.

  That brought a broad, satisfied smile from him: my shock evidently pleased him. “Yes, my girl, as of the first day of next month I will no longer claim you. I give you until then to make arrangements for your future. Three weeks should be ample time in which to find a position as a governess or companion or a similarly situated drudge. At the end of that time, should you still be in the house, I will have your belongings burnt and your person removed from my property by main force. Once you have left my house I will take no responsibility for you and make no recognition of you. You will cease to become my daughter. Should you find yourself in need of assistance, financial or otherwise, it will be useless to apply to me. I will return letters unread, telegrams unopened. You, my dear, will be a stranger to me.”

  And with that endearment—the first he had ever spoken to me—he ended our life as father and daughter.

  If he expected tears, protestations, hysterics, he must have been disappointed. He had schooled me well: since any display of emotion on my part acted as a goad to him, I had trained myself to become a blank wall. Perhaps I had taught myself too well, since I did not even feel anything.

  “I won’t ask you why you are doing this,” I said at last. “I know only too well that you have always hated me.”

  “How perceptive of you to have noticed.” The smile was gone when I met his eyes, and the hatred was so intense that it startled me, even though I was accustomed to seeing it. “Your mother would be alive now, but for you.”

  “So you have always said.” I had heard him tell the story so often I could have quoted it back to him, even parroting his phrases: bearing me was too taxing for my mother’s frail nerves, and after my birth she never regained her old spirits, sinking into a profound melancholy that was only worsened by my fretfulness, for I was a fractious, demanding infant. At last her poor nerves gave way and, driven past endurance, she flung herself into the ocean.

  I had no memories of my mother’s death, having been less than a year old at the time, and my father’s version was the only one I knew. In spite of what the tale suggested of my mother’s feelings for me, I had never ceased to miss her. I had not even the consolation of memories of her; so many times I had tried to force a recollection of her—a fragrance, or a snatch of song, would have sufficed—to come away with nothing. My father had never spoken of her to me, beyond enforcing upon me my part in her destruction. I had marveled time and time again that he who had always been so hostile and cold to me could have loved my mother with such devotion that he could not conquer his anger at her death. It would have seemed strange that so powerful a love could be transmuted into an equally powerful hatred, but that I was so familiar with him.

  “I wonder if you would have hated me less had I been the firstborn,” I mused, half to myself. “If Lionel had been the child who drove Mother to drown herself, would you have treated him as you have me? But I would still be plain and unmarriageable, and Lionel… it would be impossible for anyone not to have loved Lionel.”

  “He would have been a great man,” said Father, regret vibrating fiercely in his voice. “He would have made a name for the Pembrokes. But you—how could you ever distinguish yourself, or do anything to add luster to your family? You could never be anything but a dead weight.”

  I rose, not angry, but weary of hearing the same refrain.

  “You forget,” I said. “It is no longer my family. You are nothing to me now, as I am nothing to you. You have made it so yourself.”

  He flicked cigar ash into the fire. “If you’re trying to play on my sympathies and evoke some gush of paternal sentiment, you may as well save yourself the trouble. You won’t alter my decision.”

  “I would not dream of trying to do so,” I said, and made my curtsey. “Good night.”

  “Go on, get out.” He waved me away, even though I was already going. “I know you’re longing to escape to your room and snivel over my heartless treatment of you.”

  Once in my room I did not cry. I had not cried since I was a child. Like any display of emotion, it was too dangerous an indulgence; my father treated tears as hysteria, smacking me smartly across the face until they ceased. Now, after long years of such training, I seemed to have lost the ability. I had not even been able to weep for Lionel.

  I drew a chair up to the window, where I could watch the small patch of stars visible between the roofs of surrounding houses. I felt no fear, no sorrow, not even anger; it seemed strangely right that my life with my father should be severed in this way. We had never, after all, been father and daughter in any real sense, and now it seemed the best thing to put an end to the pretense. As soon as I had been able to think after the news of Lionel’s death, I had known that I would not be able to continue living in my father’s house. My presence there had only been bearable when Lionel had been there to smooth things. After he had left for the war conditions had become strained, to be sure, but I never seriously expected him to be gone for long; never did I consider that he might die. It seemed impossible for one so blazingly alive, whose energy fairly crackled around him, to be snuffed out. But I had been wrong.

  But even the gnawing of my grief for Lionel could not utterly blot out the strange feeling of exhilaration, even of happiness, that was pouring over me, as invigorating and refreshing as cold water. I would no longer be subject to my father’s vicious temper and cold contempt. I was free to find my own place, without having even to win it. Without knowing it, Father had done me a service. He had given me my freedom.

  Now, I asked myself, what would I do with it? In that first hour, alone with the soft unwinking light of the stars, I felt only the excitement of liberty, the tantalizing array of choices spread richly before me. The world seemed a trove of glittering opportunities beckoning to me, welcoming me. Later I would realize the immensity of this naïveté; but in that first hour of freedom I never doubted that the world awaited only a word from me before pouring all it could offer into my lap.

  What would my choice be? It was not the first time I had c
onsidered my future. Seven years ago I had seized upon the plan of joining an Anglican sisterhood. A life of contemplation and sacred hush attracted me; I would be freed from the stigma of spinsterhood (at fourteen already an inevitability) and be able to spend as much time as I wished in reading and translating. Having done all of Lionel’s lessons for him from an early age, I was quite proficient in languages and indeed took a great satisfaction in such study. One of my favorite memories had been overhearing Lionel’s unsuspecting tutor praising what he believed to be my brother’s translation of Catullus. “You’ve caught all the earthy nuances of the jaded lover upbraiding his mistress,” raved Mr. Peabody, and Lionel, who until now had had no idea of what his sister had been writing on his behalf, exclaimed blankly, “Good God, I have?”

  However, after a few years of passionately devoting myself to this dream, I realized that even a benevolent God might not smile upon an acolyte who took such pleasure and pride in reading Catullus and Gautier. It was more than likely that one who had consecrated herself to a holy life should not be so receptive to the scandalous satire of Byron. Besides, who was to say that a spiritual Father would be any kinder, any less harsh, cold, or exacting than my earthly one? I was not ready to blindly submit myself to a new lord after my treatment at the hands of the present one. Fathers struck dread in me. The Holy Mother was a more attractive figure, but she seemed to be, at best, an intermediary. So at seventeen I abandoned this plan and cast about for another.

  It was at this time that Father seemed to regain some hope that I might be salvaged. Perhaps I showed some signs of a hitherto unsuspected beauty; more likely, he did not wish to completely dismiss all hopes of me without strong proof that they were in vain. Father did not attain his prestigious career by abandoning unpromising avenues without exhausting all their possibilities first. With some such aim in mind, no doubt, he introduced into the household a relative of my mother’s, a countess, whose purpose was to sniff out any dormant charm I might possess and chivy it into the light.

  She went about her task with a formidable energy and persistence that were exhausting to me, if not to her. My comfortable, simple dresses and practical boots were rejected in favor of a cruelly fashionable new toilette, which included a corset, dozens of petticoats, and painfully tiny slippers; thus encumbered I had singing lessons (when I could not draw breath for my stays) and dancing lessons (when every step pinched unbearably). The countess and her maid spent hours every day in a grim struggle with my heavy, straight hair as they attempted to skewer it into beauty. In the end their efforts, zealous as they had been, came to nothing; after a disastrous presentation at a tea for a bevy of society ladies, I was relegated again to my semi-solitude in the upper regions of the house, and the countess was dismissed. She left immediately, taking with her my expensive new wardrobe. I was not sorry to see the end of either, although Lionel had been charmed by my new look; in fact, I recalled sending the poor woman’s coach away with a shower of hairpins.

  I had been leaning on my elbows on the windowsill, in my habitually unladylike position since no one was ever there to correct me, but now I sat up abruptly. The countess had been a relative of my mother’s; that I remembered. Yet she had not appeared at the funeral. I had not thought anything about it at the time because I never saw any of my mother’s family; I had never met any but the countess, in fact. For the first time it occurred to me to wonder if my mother’s death had caused some breach between my father and his wife’s relatives. Of course, this may have been excited imagination; more likely they had died out, or moved far away. Still, it was strange that Father never referred to them, especially since I knew he would be quick to advertise his connection to anyone with a title.

  I sat thinking until I heard Father’s steps on the floor below going to his room. When I was certain he had retired and would not emerge again, I crept noiselessly out of my room and down the stairs to his study. Skeptic he may have been, but my father still kept the old Bible in which, I hoped, the branches of the family would be recorded. I had never seen it opened, but it was displayed impressively on its own stand by his desk.

  I had not been mistaken. When I lit the gas and unfastened the clasps on the great book, I found at once what I sought. All my relatives for generations back were recorded, the most recent entries in my father’s angular, precise hand. There was Lionel’s name, with the date of his death inked in beneath in strong black strokes. Next to his was my name, Oriel Pembroke, the only legacy my mother had left me.

  But ours were not the only names on the line reserved for the present generation. The line, in fact, was almost full; four more names elbowed in next to Lionel’s and mine.

  I had cousins.

  Astonished, I stared at the page. I was so unprepared for this that I could almost convince myself that my father had made a mistake, that the names had been carelessly placed and these relatives belonged to some long-dead branch of the family. But my father, whatever his imperfections, was a meticulous man; he would not have committed to paper anything but the scrupulous truth. I had cousins whose presence I had never suspected, whom I had never known. Where were they, that we had never met? Were these my mother’s family?

  The names of their parents should give me the answer. Almost dizzily I traced upward from the unfamiliar clutch of names—two male and two female—to find myself staring at one I knew instantly. Gwendolyn Reginald, third Duchess of Ellsworth. My mother’s stepsister.

  Chapter Two

  My dear girl (the letter read),

  What a delightful surprise your note was! I never dreamed of hearing from you. Indeed, I did not know you were living; it has been so many years since I have seen you, and you but a tiny baby then. You must be the image of your sweet mother by now, and quite grown up.

  Yes, by all means do call while I am in town. I am longing for us to become acquainted, and I would welcome the opportunity to express my sympathy for the loss of your poor brother in person. I am at home on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. Do call soon so that we may begin to make up for the years we have been lost to one another.

  Affectionately, Gwendolyn Ellsworth

  The room I was shown into was a haven of warmth, light, and color after the dreary rain-drenched day outside. The maid took my dripping cloak with the faintest curl of her lip to register the puddles it was leaving on the pale carpet. But she said civilly enough, “Her Grace and the other ladies will be returning soon, if you will wait in here.”

  I thanked her, wondering about the “other ladies,” but I did not want to display my ignorance before her. I had not bargained for a gathering, and my courage, already halfhearted, threatened to turn tail and flee. I made myself sit down, when I really wished to follow the maid back out of the room and leave the way I had come.

  The duchess’s London house was in one of the fashionable cul-de-sacs I had never had cause to venture into before, and the noise of the traffic barely penetrated. There was a restful quiet here, underscored by the self-deprecating tick of the mantel clock and the crackling of the fire. My tired feet, which had carried me all the way from my own house since I had no pocket money for a hansom, sank gratefully into a thick carpet patterned with cherry blossoms. This sitting room was evidently the duchess’s own domain, for everything about the room bespoke femininity: the rose-hued damask curtains and coverings, the touches of gilt, the delicate curving lines of the furniture. After the tasteful but austere surroundings I was accustomed to, this room was a revelation. In spite of myself I began to relax under its serene influence.

  That serenity was swept aside an instant later when the double doors burst open to admit what seemed in that first moment to be a dozen young women. After the first commotion was past I was able to see that there were only four women, and not all young, but the room seemed full to brimming over with the cheerful clamor of voices, the rustling of their massive skirts, and the gay colors of their dresses. Holding out her hands to me, the prettiest of the women approached me, and I got to m
y feet to curtsey.

  “My dear child! So you did come. I so hoped you would, but I wasn’t certain—what with your being in mourning. Poor child, how dreadful for you, and your only brother. I am more sorry than I can say. But how glad I am that you came! It is all that was wanting to make my visit complete.”

  “Your Grace,” I said feebly, feeling overwhelmed by this enthusiastic barrage of commiseration and delight. “It is such an honor to meet you—”

  “Oh, come now, child, there’s no need for such formality among family,” she chided me, laughing. “For we are family. How good it is to see you again! Your mother was very dear to me, for all that we saw each other so little.… Felicity, Aminta, this is the young lady I told you about—your step-cousin, after all these years! Oh, it’s such a pleasure to see you, child!” And she flew to kiss my cheek and draw me down next to her on a divan, still chattering gaily on.

  I was glad of the respite so that I could collect myself. This was the duchess? From the scandal that was still linked with her name, I had expected something like the tragic heroine of a classical drama; surely a woman who had defied convention to make such a sudden, shocking second marriage would reflect it in her appearance. I had pictured a handsome, darkly exotic woman with a fiery temperament and passionate, knowing eyes. It was difficult to reconcile my imaginings with this golden-haired, dimpled creature, who looked at first glance to be little older than myself.

  Her eyes were blue and candid—not at all the sloe eyes of the temptress!—and bright earrings bobbed and chimed in response to her animation as she spoke. Her hands were small and dainty, her waist as slender as an eighteen-year-old’s, and instead of the rich velvets I had expected her to wear she was dressed in a confection that brought a rush of pure longing to my heart: pale blue taffeta, with at least six flounces on the skirt, each scalloped and trimmed with white silk fringe. To my dazzled, inexperienced eyes, she looked like a fairy princess, where I had expected a Cleopatra.