Sea of Secrets: A Novel of Victorian Romantic Suspense

by DeWees, Amanda

  “Herron, you may not feel any compunction at causing your mother pain, but may I remind you that she is not the only lady present? You are alarming your guests.”

  Once again Herron’s brows arced mockingly. He darted a withering glance around the table, started to speak; then his eyes fell on me and after a moment he closed his lips again.

  Encouraged by his silence, Lord Claude resumed his seat. “Have something to eat, my boy,” he suggested, not unkindly. “You’ll feel better. Jenkins, get His Grace a plate.”

  “Spoken like the master of the house,” said Herron, but in such a low voice that I may have been the only one to have heard. Aloud he said, “Does my mother take part in the invitation?”

  She smiled, not altogether successfully. “Of course, dear.”

  “Well, then. I accept.”

  The rest of the meal was, not surprisingly, carried out in an atmosphere of strain. The company made a valiant effort to restore a sense of normalcy: Lord Claude with heartily unfunny jokes, the duchess with blithe talk of trifles, and Charles with attempts to draw out the others, which were not unsuccessful but failed to erase the tension from our hostess’s face. As for the duke, I glanced at him once to find his eyes on me, steady and, I thought, speculative, but he did not say another word all evening.

  As soon as the duchess rose to signal the departure of the ladies, Herron rose as well and was the first to leave the room. His mother looked as if she longed to follow him, but she was ever conscious of her guests, and she led us all to the drawing room and settled herself with a bit of dainty embroidery as if she had no other concern.

  As the hours passed and the gentlemen rejoined us after their port, I admired her more than ever: she maintained the same gentle, gracious smile, and always listened in rapt attention to the badinage, ready to join in with a question or observation to keep the conversation afloat. Perhaps Herron was right, I thought, as I listened to an elderly earl and Miss Yates debating the relative merits of the schottische and the polka (“but the one is so much more becoming to ladies!”); perhaps the genteel conversation of society was inane. But the duchess’s demeanor never suggested she found it so. She might have been any society bride with no graver matter on her mind than the cut of her gown. Marveling at this skilled display of breeding, I contented myself with being an observer merely.

  Lord Claude was almost as talented a dissembler, and joined in the chatter with alacrity. But then, he seemed willing to let the matter of Herron’s dramatic behavior drop, and much happier among the company of guests and family. I wondered if he felt quite at ease with his new stepson: certainly, Herron’s speech and actions indicated that he was not content with his new parent.

  Charles, unlike his father, was restless; his eyes kept going to the window, and I wondered if he hoped to glimpse Herron in the grounds. When Felicity went to the pianoforte and asked him to turn pages for her, he did so, but with such an abstracted air that twice the player had to nudge him to remind him of his duty.

  If he hoped to confront his stepbrother, he was denied the opportunity; by the time the company dispersed for the night Herron had not reappeared, and Jenkins replied to the duchess’s inquiry with the statement that he had not seen Herron since dinner. We retired to our rooms without speaking of him. Claude seemed relieved at the postponement, the duchess disappointed; the two emotions were mingled in me.

  Later, after I had undressed and gone to bed, I lay for a long time trying to sleep. Anyone will testify that this is a vain enterprise: the very effort of trying to compel oneself to sleep makes one increasingly alert. The noise of the wind, which was sometimes so lulling, only communicated a feeling of violent energy and unrest as it whistled at the windows. I sighed and leaned over to grope for matches, when a moment’s drop in the gusting of the wind allowed me to hear clearly another sound: a slow, steady beat overhead.

  It was the footsteps I had heard on my first night at Ellsmere.

  Their pace was unnervingly regular, like a metronome, and they wandered from directly over my chamber to a space more distant, so that at times they almost died out. The sound was muffled but carried a strange gravity with it, as if an unknown sentry walked the roof over the rooms of sleepers.

  I succeeded in lighting my candle, which flickered in the draft from the windows, and slipped out of bed. My boots lay on the carpet where I had cast them off, and I stepped into them hastily; in a moment more I had wrapped myself in my old black cape and shut the door of my room behind me. The candle flame burned steadily in the relative stillness of the corridor, and by its light I looked around to see that no one else was there. The hall beyond was a wall of darkness, and the only sound came from above, the regular drumbeat of the walker’s footsteps. I remembered the duchess’s concern for me, alone on the topmost floor; had she known of the footsteps and feared for me to hear them? Or was I the only one to hear them because of the isolation of my room?

  Whatever the reason, no one else had emerged to join me in seeking their source. Shielding the candle with my hand, I made my way quickly to the end of the corridor and the unassuming door that gave on the tower stairs: at the next landing was the door to the roof, and I supposed that if one continued to climb one would emerge atop the tower, but I had never ventured that far. I opened the door and stepped into the stairwell, and the sudden guttering of my candle flame told me that the door to the roof was already open. Whatever—whoever—walked above must have taken this way before me. For some reason, this was more unnerving than the sound of the footsteps itself, the knowledge that the unknown had crept unheard past my door.

  Carefully, holding up my hem so that I would not trip on the narrow stair, I ascended to the roof. When I emerged into the night air the wind immediately snuffed my candle, but at once I saw another light: someone had placed a lamp near the parapet, and it cast a warm circle that reached almost to where I stood. Still I waited, looking for the source of the sound I had heard. I could hear the footsteps, sounding distant now, and I moved forward slowly, trying to peer around the chimneys that blocked my view.

  The cloaked figure emerged so suddenly that I fell back a step. He was at the other end of the roof but approaching with that steady gait whose sound I had come to know so well. He—for he had the height, and his shoulders the breadth, of a man—came steadily closer, and in anticipation of seeing his face I moved toward him, until the lamplight lapped the hem of my cloak.

  Immediately he drew up short. For a moment we both stood motionless. Then, so swiftly I had no time to move, he closed the space between us in four long strides and seized me by the arm. His grip was so strong that I cried out, but he paid me no heed, his other hand fumbling for my hood, which he flung back from my face. The light was behind him, so I could see nothing of his face, and he must have seen but little of mine, for he pulled me roughly toward the place where the lamp stood. In a moment we could see each other, and he let my arm drop.

  “Oh,” said the duke, “it’s you,” and three words have never been steeped with such bitter disappointment.

  Rubbing my arm where he had grasped me, I reflected that his company that evening had hardly been pleasant enough that he could afford to criticize mine, but I said only, “What are you doing up here?”

  “That is no concern of yours.”

  “It is my concern when your pacing keeps me awake,” I said—unjustly, but I was past caring about fairness.

  He ignored this. Now that he had seen who I was, he evidently had no use for me: he had turned his back and stood staring out over the darkened landscape toward the sea. When the wind died I could just hear the waves, and it was strange to be unable to see them.

  Since he seemed disinclined to conversation, I took a few minutes to better look at our surroundings. The multitude of chimneys, some as wide as four men standing shoulder to shoulder, scattered seemingly at random, gave the roof the feel of a sparsely wooded forest; anything could be hiding a few feet away, unknown. Perhaps that was why Herron p
aced instead of keeping his vigil by the parapet: he wanted to be sure that nothing was concealed from him? But what would he be seeking? I wondered who he had expected to see when he uncovered my face.

  A mistress, came the cynical thought; if he had been Lionel, that would have been likely. But the duke had not behaved as if greeting a beloved when he seized me.

  He was pacing again, his hands thrust in his pockets, the wind ruffling his hair. I moved to relight my candle at his lamp and heard his steps pause. There was no sound as I coaxed my candle into life again, and an uneasy feeling crawled up my neck at the knowledge that he stood somewhere behind me, silent and watching.

  “Do you believe that the dead return?”

  The suddenness of the words was no less startling than their sense. I turned slowly, taking time to collect myself.

  He was standing very near and staring at me intently, as if my answer was of great importance. Unnerved though I was, I could not help but notice the unearthly beauty of his face in the lamp’s soft illumination. Covered in the cloak, he might have been a figure from another time, a visitant himself, doomed to walk on nights like this.

  “Do you mean ghosts?” I asked, uncertain.

  He shrugged impatiently. “Ghosts, revenants, haunts—whatever you wish to call them. Do you think the soul can return after the death of the body to move among the living?”

  I had never given the subject any serious thought, and I felt a doubt lest he was baiting me. “Well, one of my governesses once told me that Anne Boleyn still walks in the Tower…”

  At once I knew I had said the wrong thing. Pushing past me, he snatched up the lamp. “Is that all you know about? Servants’ gossip and All Hallows’ spooks? You’re as useless as the rest.” He was striding to the door, and I hurried after him and the receding circle of light, which suddenly seemed like a refuge.

  “Wait, please. I haven’t ever seen one, but that does not mean—” The meaning of his words struck me. “Have you? Is that what you’re looking for?”

  His step faltered, but only for an instant. He plunged down the stair, and by the time I had fastened the door behind me he was gone; only the penumbra of the lamp retreating down the hall gave any sign of his existence.

  I fumbled my way back to my room and crept into bed. Burrowing into the welcome warmth, I played the strange encounter over again in my mind. I could not forget the sight of his face, staring out of the darkness, his eyes intent and seeming to see far beyond the present. Somehow he put me in mind of the old ballad of Tam Lin, the human whose beauty so captivated the Queen of Faery that she claimed him for her own. Generations might come and go, but when unwary mortals summoned him from the other world, he was still young, still fair, but with a terrible knowledge in his eyes. Herron had looked as I had always imagined Tam Lin to look: like a man who had seen worlds beyond this one, and knew they could endanger a man’s very soul.

  Had he seen something? Or did he only hope to?

  * * *

  After this incident, my life at Ellsmere fell into a fairly unexciting routine. It was not what I had expected when I had made plans with the duchess in the city: I had somehow imagined that I would be instantly assimilated into a new family, that my days would be crammed with company and conversation. I had eagerly anticipated discussing poetry with Herron, politics with Charles, and everything else with the duchess and Felicity. Since Lionel’s departure I had been starved for someone to talk to, and I had not realized just to what extent until I found that, after all, I would spend much of the time in my new life as I had in the old—alone.

  The duchess could hardly be blamed; with the enormous household to run, she was very busy, and I counted myself fortunate that she took time every day, even if it was only a few minutes before the dinner gong went, to ask after my activities and make certain that I had everything I desired. She was always in the midst of a hum of activity: paying a visit to the tenants or nearby neighbors; planning menus and arranging flowers; sending invitations and answering them; supervising the redecoration of the guest rooms in preparation for the house party that would be arriving the next month. She seemed amazed that I would wish to stay in Great-Aunt Agatha’s room, with its unfashionable furnishings and dark, faded hangings, but I loved the rich forest-green velvet and damask; age had muted their splendor to mysterious, subtle hues, so that to my eyes the room had the tints and shadows of a wood at dusk.

  Of Felicity I saw little, as well: Miss Yates had not relaxed her vigilance regarding lessons in spite of the short time remaining until Felicity would dispose of her services, and when Felicity was not closeted with the governess she was following the duchess around with the devotion of an acolyte. When forced to part from her idol she could generally be found practicing on the pianoforte, for which she had a great talent. She was pleasant, but on those occasions when she was disposed for my company, we found it difficult to find a subject on which to converse, since our interests and characters were so dissimilar. After we had assuaged our initial curiosity about each other, we were forced to fall back on discussion of the weather and the prospects of trifle for tea.

  Her brother, while easier to talk to, spent much of the time in diligent study to prepare himself to take up his medical training in earnest when he left for Edinburgh. During the mornings he was usually closeted in his study, but we occasionally encountered each other in the afternoon. To my surprise, he turned out to be widely read, and one day when I came upon him walking on the terrace we had a friendly argument about the new novel John Halifax, Gentleman, which I had just finished reading. I had found it rather saccharine, but Charles said he enjoyed melodrama.

  However, as agreeable as Charles was in his fashion, it was Herron I wished to see more of. As abrasive as his company was, it was curiously stimulating, in a way that the rest of the family, for all their kindness, were not: I wanted to know more about the young duke who bore his title so reluctantly. His obvious unhappiness drew me to him; I felt as if, like me, he knew he was out of place here, even though he was among his own people and I was a stranger. The alien quality of his grief and the anger with which he armed himself separated him from his own flesh and blood as visibly as his dark coloring contrasted with their blondness. He might have been a changeling, this dark son of a golden family, placed among them by a mischievous goblin. In those early days, when I was still insecure in my new life, uncertain of my future and—perhaps in consequence—bitterly lonely for Lionel, I would have given much to speak to a fellow creature who knew something of the isolation I felt. But Herron continued to avoid all company, and, after my blundering intrusion on the roof, I was not surprised that he did not seek me out. I tried to put myself in his path again, but without success.

  Although my hosts did not fully guess the extent to which I felt out of place, Lord Claude at least showed that he had considered my strange position in the household. One afternoon he invited me into his study to talk. I sat on the edge of a chair, facing him over the massive desk at which he sat. When he saw my nervousness he smiled at me kindly.

  “There’s no need to look so solemn, my dear, as if you were going to be scolded like one of the maids; I’m not going to accuse you of failing to dust under the bureau. I thought, though, that it might be best to discuss the terms of your stay here.”

  In spite of his reassurance, this sounded very businesslike, and I waited apprehensively.

  “I take it that my charming wife, who, between us, has been known to be slightly impulsive”—I could not help smiling at that—“invited you here without giving you a very clear idea of just what the nature of your visit would be. In which case I would imagine that you are in a somewhat uncomfortable position, with no certainty as to how long or under what conditions your stay will be.”

  “That is true,” I said. “But, sir, if I am to be her new lady’s maid, I must confess that I have no aptitude for that sort of work.”

  It was a feeble joke at best, but he leaned back in his chair and laughed
, a relaxed, unconstrained sound. “My dear child, I have no intention of putting you to work. Indeed, I simply wanted to let you know that you should consider yourself truly one of our family. You are welcome here for as long as you choose to stay. Permanently, if you wish.”

  “But, sir, I couldn’t possibly impose—”

  “My dear, please do not think of such a thing. You are one of our family, and indeed I do believe Gwendolyn feels she has acquired a new daughter. Ellsmere is your home now, if you wish to claim it.” He reached across the desk for my hand. I placed it in his, shyly, for I was still not used to gestures of affection. “It’s settled, then?” he asked. “You’ll be content to acquire an eccentric, slightly scandalous, but nonetheless loving family?”

  The mischievous light in his eyes encouraged me even more than his words. “Indeed, sir, I find a bit of eccentricity invigorating. In any case, I’ve already grown very fond of this family. It’s—very different from the one I knew before.”

  Lord Claude glanced at me when I said that, but did not take me up on it. Instead he told me of his arrangements for a dress allowance for me—an amount that made me blink—and for the renovation of the room next to mine as a study for me. “Gwen said that you’re fond of languages,” he said as I rose to go. “The library here is rather a good one. You must feel free to avail yourself of it.”

  When I found the library I realized how modest he had been in his praise of it. Two stories high, it was completely lined with books—even the doors had shelves built on to them—and I had to tip my head back to see the highest shelves. A gallery ran around the second level, and rolling ladders on both levels offered the means to reach the less accessible volumes. It would take a week simply to read all the titles. At random I chose a shelf and immediately found extensive sets of Virgil, Homer, and Cicero, as well as more recent works in different languages, some of which I had heard of but had not been allowed to read. I stood with a copy of Mademoiselle de Maupin in one hand and Apuleius’s Metamorphoses in the other, almost dizzy as I surveyed the riches surrounding me.