Indoors the atmosphere was listless, with everyone lethargic and spent after last night’s revels, but outdoors the air held an electric quality. There was no rain, no lightning, but the sky still lowered; and the wind whipped relentlessly around me, tugging at my skirts and hair. I gulped it into my lungs, grateful for the refreshing cold vitality of it. It helped me convince myself that I felt brave as I approached the lone figure standing at the head of the cliff path.
He turned as I neared him. Then, after one brief look, he faced the sea again. Not a word; not a sign to show that he had marked my presence. His eyes simply took in my existence, then dismissed it as irrelevant.
“Herron?” I said in bewilderment, but he did not move.
“I’ve been expecting you,” I tried next.
He spoke without moving. “Why?”
More than merely discouraging, it was humiliating, addressing his back. “After what happened last night, I thought you would wish to talk to me.”
“I have nothing more to say to you.”
His voice was not even bitter; it was distant, flat, as if he had spent all his emotion last night. I fought the urge to give up and turn back. He so clearly wanted nothing to do with me. I could have dealt with anger better than this complete absence of feeling; anger at least would have shown that I still had some effect on him.
“It’s precisely because of what you said that I am here.” Again, nothing. “At the very least you owe me an apology.”
“I owe you nothing. All obligations between us are broken.”
The meaning was starkly clear. I felt faint, as if all the breath had been squeezed out of my body. “What has happened to you, Herron?”
At this he turned to face me. His face might have been that of a marble saint, so unmoving, so beautiful it was in its cool remoteness. “You are a remarkable creature,” he observed, the lack of any feeling in his voice belying the words. “So persistent in your pretended naïveté, even when I’ve shown you up for the false creature you are.”
“I was never false to you.”
He ignored this. “How completely you fooled me. You seemed so sincere and devoted, and all the time you were manipulating me, conspiring with the rest of my loving family.”
“Conspiring! How, pray? Must you see everything that goes on in this house as a threat to you?” I retorted, aware that an edge was creeping into my voice.
This at last won some spark of response from him. “If you find me so absurd, you needn’t force yourself to endure me any longer,” he said coldly. “You may report to my uncle that your mission has failed, and that he will have to find another toady.”
I reached out to him, hoping that my touch might bring him to his former self, but he shook my hand off almost absently. “Herron, what are you saying? I love you. I thought you loved me.” But in his face I could find no remnant of love.
“I haven’t loved you for weeks,” he said.
Weeks.
He had not said it to hurt me. It was the plain truth.
Weeks.
When I had breath to speak I demanded, “Why did you say nothing? You should have ended it, Herron. It would have been kinder than letting me cling to a futile hope.”
“I’m certain you won’t be lonely for long,” he said, uninterested. “You’ve made it plain that one man is as good as another. Why not Charles? He’s good-looking enough, although perhaps too dim and bloodless to make the conquest a triumph for you.”
“Don’t say such things of him,” I snapped. “Charles is a fine man, Herron; perhaps finer than you.”
“And how quick you are to defend him,” came the dry rejoinder.
“I must, if you are to persist in seeing only evil in everyone around you. First your uncle, then your mother, then Charles—why do you believe we are all conspiring against you? None of us would ever dream of doing you ill.”
He shrugged, losing interest. “You know best, of course.”
I might indeed have been appealing to a statue. Frustration rose in a red tide. “Very well, so you have lost faith in me. But I refuse to believe that you know your family as little as you pretend to. They have always loved you, and you persist in believing them capable of the worst kind of deception and vice. I don’t know what you were like before your father’s death, but it seems to have done something to you—made you suspicious and evil-minded—and I don’t like what you have become.”
To my horror, I saw his mouth curl into a sneer at my vehemence. “You really should be consistent, my darling,” he purred, so nastily that I shrank back. “Only a moment ago you were prepared to swear on your soul that you love me. Which story am I to believe?”
He had never spoken to me in so caustic a tone, and his face was distorted into something that sickened me. I had spoken the truth when I said he had changed.
“Believe what you will,” I said, shaken. “I know that I loved you: guilelessly, and sincerely, whatever you may claim. And I hope that some day you will come to realize that, and will recognize that you yourself were the ruin of it. I am blameless.”
I turned to go, unable to bear the sight of him any longer. That in outward appearance he should remain as beautiful and desirable as he always had, when our circumstances were so changed, was the cruelest mockery. It was nearly impossible to conceive that I no longer had the right to kiss those lips, which I had kissed so many times; that I could no longer expect those velvet eyes to rest on me with delight. My mind could not hold the idea while my eyes still held him in their sight. I had to get far away from this man who was suddenly no part of me.
Before I had taken three steps his voice came from behind me.
“I let you make a fool of me for too long.”
I turned back for an instant. “You made yourself a fool, Herron; I had nothing to do with it.”
He shut his eyes as if succumbing to the weight of intolerable tedium, and turned away.
For only a moment I struggled with the desire to go to him, to shake him until this evil spirit that spoke through him had relinquished his hold and the Herron I loved looked out again through his eyes. I wanted to weep, to beg, to scream at him. But it would do no good. He was lost to me now; there was no changing that.
But I could not continue to stand there wrestling with my soul; blindly, swiftly I moved away, wanting only to put distance between us. The path to the shore beckoned, and I plunged down it, the recklessness of my descent dislodging pebbles and earth under my feet. I wanted the sea. I wanted to plunge into the icy water until the remembered touch of his hands and lips on my skin was blunted into numbness, until the roar of the tide obliterated his murmured endearments in my ears.
And the other voices as well, the ones that sounded like my father, saying how senseless I had been to believe he could love me. I clapped my hands to my ears, but it did not blot out the jeers ringing in my head. I could not stop seeing Herron’s face, once full of trust and tenderness, transfigured into revulsion and scorn.
I was almost running when my feet touched the strand, and I kept running through the churning surf, as cold eddies sucked at my footsteps and the wind lashed at me until my skin was stinging and raw. When my strength failed I slowed to a walk, but I kept moving along the beach, following the foamy line of the tide, away from Ellsmere. Away from Herron.
* * *
When, hours later, I returned to the house, I had reached a point of more than physical numbness. I could not say I had begun to accept the end of Herron’s love for me, but it had taken on an unreal quality; if I exercised the fiercest control over my thoughts and memories, and quashed him every time he tried, specter-like, to appear, I could endure.
This fragile self-possession carried me through the days that followed. Dinner every night posed the greatest challenge, since Herron was always there: after his mother’s ultimatum he had been careful to join the family nightly for dinner, although he said little enough in his uncle’s company. The sight of him at the dinner table on the evening a
fter the ball was excruciating, and I avoided looking at him as much as possible.
The ordeal was made even worse by the certain knowledge that both of us were being closely observed by everyone else present. It was borne in upon me that our estranged behavior was prompting much speculative raising of eyebrows, meaning glances, and whispered comments, and whenever I raised my eyes from my plate I was sure to encounter a host of peering eyes. A shattered heart might be borne—I was not yet ready to make a definite assertion on that point—but it certainly should not be served up before an avid audience every night.
Fortunately, since the ball had marked the climax of the house party, the number of guests was diminishing. Every day the great hall was filled with luggage, and a carriage was always waiting in the drive for those who were departing. The number of places at dinner dwindled every night, and as the third floor gradually emptied my room regained its previous atmosphere of calm and privacy.
That was the pleasant part of the guests’ departure; unfortunately, the end of the house party was not an unmitigated advantage. For one thing, my father showed no sign of departing. Every morning I felt the sinking of my heart as he presented his gloating smile to me over the breakfast table and asked with saccharine concern whether Herron and I had “made up that lovers’ tiff yet.” The duchess chafed, I thought, but did not ask him outright to leave, and I began to wonder if he would become a permanent member of the household.
The other disadvantage of the emptying house was that once more I found myself left to my own devices for the greater part of the time. No longer were the days and nights filled with a busy commotion of social activity; it was not possible to avoid Herron’s company, and my own thoughts, by joining a group of guests and immersing myself in the company of others. My own rooms, once a refuge, were haunted by memories of Herron’s presence; yet I was afraid that if I left them I would encounter him.
Somewhat to my surprise, Felicity emerged as a great help and comfort to me at that time. This came about from a simple question: she asked me one day at luncheon if it was true that I did not ride.
“Living in the city as I always have, there was little opportunity to learn,” I explained.
“Well, you no longer live in the city, cousin,” she reminded me, with a trace of smugness. “I shall teach you.”
I tried to demur. “I would be a terrible pupil; I cannot make such claims on your patience or your time.”
“Oh, you needn’t worry that I can’t teach you.” Her amusement made me wonder, abashed, if my doubt had been that evident. “Charles and Aminta will tell you that I am a fine horsewoman. Come, it will be fun; now that the house is empty, we shall need something to keep us from being dull.”
Aminta added her endorsement. “Felicity may look about as capable as a butterfly, but she is an excellent rider.”
“There, you see? Do say you’ll let me teach you. I promise that if after a fortnight you aren’t pleased with your progress I’ll not bother you any more.” She put her head on one side and shook her curls in her most cajoling manner, and I smiled and gave in.
In spite of Aminta’s commendation, I was surprised to find that Felicity was, in fact, a good teacher. She was unexpectedly patient with me, and quick to offer praise and encouragement when they were needed. In less time than I would have thought possible, I had become comfortable in the saddle. The day I was first able to ride to the village and back was a cause for celebration. I would probably never sit a horse with Felicity’s apparently instinctive grace, but for me it was a triumph.
Perhaps just as therapeutic was having something with which to occupy my time and my thoughts. Even on days when I spent more time falling out of the saddle than riding, I was less desolate now that I had something to distract me from the ever-present pain of losing Herron.
Felicity was not the only one who helped me through those first terrible weeks. Aminta and her husband frequently had me to tea in the nursery with their children, in whose presence it was impossible to be self-absorbed. Charles and I took to spending an hour or two every afternoon playing chess; while we spent most of this time in silence, again I found that focusing my thoughts on strategy was an effective antidote to grief. The duchess took me calling with her, brought Mrs. Prescott in to fit me for spring gowns, and engaged my aid in selecting hangings and furniture for the redecoration of the third floor. With a tact that I welcomed gratefully, she refrained form expressing any disappointment in her hopes of a marriage between me and her son. In fact, she only mentioned him once, to note offhandedly that he had taken to spending all his time in his rooms, and I knew that she had told me this so that my mind might be eased, knowing I need not fear a chance encounter with him.
As for Lord Claude, he produced what was perhaps the most unexpected and dramatic means of taking my mind off Herron.
One night after dinner I was startled by a knock on my study door. I had been reading—or, at least, had been moving my eyes over the pages of a book—and jumped at the unexpected sound. It was a strange time for a visitor; the family and few remaining guests would still be gathered in the drawing room. “Come in,” I said, trying to quell the faint surge of hope that rose in my heart.
It died of its own accord when the door opened to reveal Lord Claude. “Oh, good evening, sir,” I said, hoping my disappointment did not show.
“Good evening, my dear. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“Not at all.” This, at least, was the truth, and I shut the book and put it aside as he took a seat. For the first time in weeks, he seemed at his ease; I guessed that this was because my father was not present. Lord Claude invariably looked tense and strained around him, as if my father wore a black shroud and carried a scythe. I imagined that I probably looked the same way myself when near him. Indeed, it was partly to escape my father’s company that I had retreated directly to my room after dinner instead of lingering with the others in the drawing room.
“I know it is late for a visit, so I’ll not detain you long,” Lord Claude said now, with a smile that held something of its old charm. “In fact, I come as a messenger.”
“Oh?” I said, that idiotic hope bobbing up again, and he must have observed it, for he was quick to put me out of doubt.
“From Charles.”
“Oh,” I said again; then, belatedly, “whatever for?” Charles had never resorted to such oblique means of communicating with me before. Indeed, he had no need to; I had seen him just an hour ago at dinner.
“The fact is,” said my visitor, settling back into his chair and lacing his fingers comfortably across the front of his waistcoat, “Charles wishes to know if you would consider becoming his wife.”
Chapter Sixteen
I blinked at him. He continued to regard me with perfect composure; I, on the other hand, had never felt so confused. “Charles?” I repeated, my voice an incredulous squeak.
He permitted himself a half smile. “He knew his suggestion would come as a surprise. In fact, if I had less confidence in your self-command, my dear, I would have come armed with spirits of ammonia before broaching such a topic. But, however sudden, the offer is serious. My son wishes to marry you.”
“Why?” At this he did smile, and I put my hands to my head, trying to sort out my thoughts. “No, I don’t mean why, exactly, but—yes, I do. Why should Charles propose to me? He has never given the least indication that he is at all interested in me, that way.”
“Hasn’t he?” Under Lord Claude’s steady gaze I felt more discomfited than ever; all of a sudden I was forced to re-evaluate every meeting I had ever had with Charles in a new light. Could I have misread his behavior, been blind to the import of his seemingly platonic interest?
“Well, perhaps he was not very marked in his attentions,” Lord Claude conceded, as I did not speak. “But you must admit that he had every reason not to be.”
Of course. Until recently everyone had believed that Herron and I had an understanding—as I myself had believed. But I
still had difficulty reconciling my amiable chess partner with this new vision of him as hopeful wooer. The idea seemed so farfetched, so different from the Charles I knew. This might be some ploy of my father’s to better his own ends, or at best a cruel joke on his spinsterish daughter. It might even be the duchess, with her penchant for matchmaking, who had conceived the proposal.
“Are you certain it was Charles’s wish for you to speak to me?” I asked warily.
His eyebrows rose as if he was injured, but then he sighed. “You have every right to ask me that, of course,” he said, his voice a subdued rumble. “You have not been able to trust me as you used to since your father arrived.”
“No,” I admitted. His shoulders bowed under the weight of the word, and I added softly, “but the blame is my father’s, not yours. The only thing I fear in you is my father’s hold over you, and that is not your fault.”
“You’re a kind girl,” he said slowly. “And an understanding one.”
“I know my father; that is all. Lord Claude… what is the real reason for his presence here? Can you tell me?”
I was horrified to see his face contract in pain, his eyes shutting as if he was unable to face his own knowledge. “I cannot tell you that, my girl. In any case, you would not believe me. And better for you that you did not.”
“I see.” I saw nothing, except that I should not force him further; whatever my father’s purpose here, it was one that seemed to tear at Lord Claude’s soul. “I… I suppose, then, that you cannot say when he will be going.”
He rubbed at the crease in his forehead, while his eyes slid away from mine. “It will not be much longer,” he said, and the words seemed weighted with a meaning I could not discern.
“Then we shall be free,” I exclaimed. “Surely we can endure him a little longer, if we know the time is short.”
Sea of Secrets: A Novel of Victorian Romantic Suspense Page 24