The Soldier's Dark Secret

by Marguerite Kaye

  He made no answer. She supposed it was because there was no point. Outside, the night was giving way to a grey dawn. Celeste let herself quietly out into the corridor.

  * * *

  It was over. He had made certain it was over. Jack sat in the post-chaise beside Celeste the next day, subdued and silent, trying to persuade himself that he’d done the right thing. His confession, so long held at bay, had wrung him dry, but instead of making his guilt more raw, it seemed to have simply numbed him. The pain came from looking at the woman seated next to him, and seeing the dullness in her eyes, and knowing he was the cause. The pain came from knowing that he had wilfully destroyed something precious. The pain came from knowing that every day brought him closer to the day that would be the last day of their acquaintance. The only way he could manage it was to vow to himself that he would find her answers before that day arrived. That should be enough. He’d make it enough.

  As soon as the carriage drew up at the front door, Celeste gathered up her reticule, picked her hat from the seat where she had discarded it in a futile attempt to pass the journey by sleeping, and made her way into the house, no doubt eager for the privacy of her bedchamber.

  Wearily, wishing he could do the same but knowing his brother would be agog to hear all about the dinner, Jack was not surprised to be told that he was expected in the morning room at his convenience. It was the least he could do, and it was churlish of him to resent it, he told himself. Dresses and uniforms, toasts and a few choice anecdotes would do it. He’d managed to fool every one of the dinner guests into believing that Lieutenant-Colonel Trestain was alive and kicking, and none of them meant as much to him as Charlie. Charlie, his brother, his own flesh and blood, who had taken him in without question, and who had put up with Jack’s moods and his silences and his absences.

  And Eleanor too, his long-suffering sister-in-law. She would appreciate a course-by-course account of the meal, if he could only remember what it had consisted of. Opening the door and summoning what he hoped was a cheerful smile, Jack decided he’d just have to make it up as he went along.

  * * *

  Three days later, Celeste was in her studio, putting the final touches to her painting of the lake. The next painting, a view from the hill of the manor and the village, was already sketched out. She had been working long hours since returning from Hunter’s Reach, partly in an effort to stay out of Jack’s way, and partly in an attempt to stop thinking about that night. There was no doubt now in her mind that she would be a fool to wish for the impossible, but there were times, moments of weakness, when that was exactly what she did.

  Jack’s distinctive tap on the door made her jump. One look at his expression made her heart plummet. ‘What is wrong?’

  He put the tray he’d been carrying down and poured two glasses of cognac. ‘Sit down.’

  ‘Jack, what is it?’

  He pulled a letter from his coat pocket and handed it to her. ‘This arrived in the post this morning. It’s from Rundell and Bridge. I’m so terribly sorry, Celeste, but it seems one part of the trail has gone completely cold.’

  Her fingers shaking, she pulled out the contents and scanned it quickly. It was only after a second, more painstaking reading that the full import of the words sank in. She picked up the glass of cognac and took a large sip, coughing as the fiery spirit hit the back of her throat. ‘And so you are proved correct,’ she said to Jack, who was watching her anxiously. ‘Maman was indeed a gently bred English lady. “Blythe Elizabeth Wilmslow, only and much beloved child of the late...”’ Her lip trembled. She took another, more cautious sip of the cognac and picked up the letter again. ‘“The late Lord and Lady Wilmslow.” So my mother’s parents are both dead.’ Her fingers went to the locket, which had, according to the letter, been commissioned by them for her mother’s twenty-first birthday.

  ‘I’m very sorry.’

  Celeste took another sip of brandy. A hot tear trickled down her cheek. She wiped it away. ‘I can’t think why I am— It’s not as if I knew them, these Wilmslow people.’

  ‘They were your maternal grandparents.’

  ‘No, they would never have acknowledged me—because I am illegitimate.’ She sniffed hard. ‘I always knew that. I don’t know why it’s harder to accept now that I have the names of these— My mother’s parents. Wilmslow. It is a very English name.’ Another tear trickled down her cheek. She scrubbed it with the edge of her painting smock. ‘It is stupid to feel sad for the death of people you don’t know. Especially since, unlike Maman, they did not die prematurely.’ She consulted the letter. ‘Only three years ago, my mother’s father passed away, and then two years ago, her mother. Yet not once did she mention them. Even though they were still alive and living here in England until very recently.’ She sniffed again. ‘Perhaps there is a family trait that encourages estrangement.’

  ‘Celeste, you know that’s not true.’ Jack took her glass from her and lifted her hand to the locket. ‘Your mother was “the only and much beloved child” it says in the letter. This extremely expensive piece of jewellery is proof of how much her parents loved her. And you must surely see that what is inside is proof of how much your own mother loved you.’

  ‘Despite all evidence to the contrary?’

  Jack nodded. ‘Despite that.’

  He put his arm around her shoulder. Celeste closed her eyes, enjoying the solid feel of him, letting her tears trickle through her closed lids. The cognac fumes were clouding her brain but something in the letter was nagging away at her. She jerked upright and scrabbled for it again. ‘It says here that the Wilmslows’ estate was inherited by a third cousin because Blythe Wilmslow died without issue. But when her parents died Maman was still alive. I can understand that they would not know about me, but why would they believe Maman dead?’ She jumped to her feet. ‘Alors, why can nothing be simple! Why cannot a question lead to an answer instead of more questions?’

  She gazed at her completed painting of the lake. She was pleased with it. The light was just right. Late afternoon, the shadows playing on the water. And here, on the edge, was the hawthorn bush where she had hidden to watch Jack swimming that very first morning.

  She turned back round. There he was, sprawled as usual, his long legs stretched out before him, no coat, no cravat, his hair rumpled. He looked tired. Only a few nights ago, she had lain in his arms. Only a few weeks, and she would be finished her commission and return to Paris. Without answers. Without Jack.

  ‘And so it ends,’ Celeste said, trying not to let her voice quiver. ‘As you said, the trail has run cold.’

  ‘There is another trail.’

  ‘The file? Why did you not say it had arrived?’

  ‘I was worried it would be too much.’ Jack rolled his eyes. ‘I know I have no right or need to manage you, but it’s a habit that’s rather engrained into officers, this managing. Are you ready?’

  ‘That sounds ominous.’ Celeste sat back down beside him and poured herself another inch of cognac. Jack had not touched his. She lifted the glass and took a sip. ‘I’m ready.’

  ‘Right. Well, in 1794 Arthur Derwent was sent on a secret mission to France to rescue a number of well-to-do Englishmen and women from the Terror, including one Blythe Wilmslow. Three out of the four people on his list returned safely but Blythe did not, and nor did Arthur. According to the file, they both died in Paris that same year, 1794.’

  Celeste’s mouth fell open. She set her cognac glass down untouched. ‘You must be making this up. It is too fantastical. A spy despatched to carry out a daring rescue of my mother. It is like something from a lurid novel.’

  ‘I assure you, it’s in the file in black and white. France was an extremely risky place to be for a member of the English aristocracy at that time. The dangers were all too real.’

  ‘Maman’s parents, this Lord and Lady Wilmslow, they must have bee
n besides themselves with worry. I don’t understand, Jack—if France was so dangerous for Maman then why did she stay?’

  Jack shook his head. ‘You’re right, it doesn’t make sense, but there’s nothing more in the file. We can, however, deduce one rather important fact.’

  ‘Jack, I am an artist, not a code-breaker. What is this important fact?’

  ‘For good or bad, Arthur Derwent could not possibly have been your father. He went to France in 1794. You were already four years old.’

  Celeste clutched at her brow. ‘You must think I am an idiot.’

  ‘On the contrary. You have an enormous amount to take in, that’s all.’

  ‘But then why did my mother have this man’s signet ring? Did he really die or did he too disappear, like Maman seems to have done? And when did Henri come into the picture?’

  Jack shrugged. ‘I don’t know the answer to any of those questions, but I know where we should start looking. It’s just a hunch. No, it’s more than that. Call it an educated guess.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘That the answer lies in France. In your mother’s house in Cassis.’

  Chapter Twelve

  South of France—October 1815,

  one month later

  Celeste stood on the deck of the small blue-and-white fishing boat as they made their way into Cassis harbour after the short sea journey along the coast from Marseilles. A weak morning sun glinted off the familiar white cliffs. The sea was the same colour as the central stone in her locket. The sun dappling the water, the tang of salt, and of this morning’s catch, mingled with that herby scent she could not define but was the essence of the south, combined to fill her senses.

  It was strange to be speaking her own language again, more strange to hear the rough dialect of Provence. She had forgotten how very beautiful it was here, and how much she loved the sea. Dread had been her primary emotion on every visit she could recall as an adult, and there had been blessed few of them. The last time, it had been to bury her mother. Today, she thought to herself with a sad smile, she was here to try to finally bury the past along with her.

  The fishing boat bumped against the harbour wall. The fisherman jumped on to the jetty and tied up. Jack lifted their few bits of luggage out of the boat before helping Celeste out.

  As he paid the man, talking easily in his excellent French, Celeste stood on the jetty, looking up at the village which ran along the edge of the shore. It had never felt like home, but today there was a sense of homecoming. She was excited to be here. She was a little daunted. She was afraid that despite Jack’s assurance that there was always something which had been overlooked, that they would reach another dead end.

  He was still talking to the fisherman. His face was tanned from their days at sea, for he had spent much of their journey to Marseilles up on deck. He had explained their trip to Sir Charles as army business in such a way that his brother immediately assumed it was also cloak-and-dagger business. With the advantage of Celeste having met Wellington, he mendaciously informed his brother that the Duke himself insisted that she accompany him on this mysterious mission as part of his cover. Sir Charles was entirely unconvinced, but refrained from saying so, content to indulge Jack in the hope that whatever the purpose of his trip, it would aid his recuperation.

  The arrangements for their travel had been made and executed so efficiently that Celeste could almost have been persuaded that Jack really was taking her on a secret mission. He had been, for the most part, the rather intimidating commanding officer she had witnessed at Wellington’s dinner. It effectively created a distance between them, which Celeste knew was the point. That night at Hunter’s Reach had been their beginning and their end. She could only surmise that his determination to expedite her quest was rooted in his desire to put an end to their time together. She tried very hard to persuade herself that he was acting in her interests as well as his own. She tried, with considerably less enthusiasm than she once would have, to persuade herself that she was as set upon remaining the one and only architect of her own future.

  ‘Ready?’

  Celeste grimaced. ‘As I will ever be, I suppose. Jack, do you really think you will find something?’

  He nodded. ‘I told you, there is always something to be found if you know where to look.’

  She wandered over to the edge of the pier and gazed out to sea. ‘Such a—a tangle of revelations have brought us here. I still find it difficult to make sense of any of it. My mother was so reticent. She was like a mouse, scuttling about, hoping no one would see her. You know, I’d even forgotten how beautiful she was until I looked at the miniature in my locket. She always covered her hair with caps, and her clothes...’ Celeste wrinkled her nose. ‘Black, black, brown and black.’ Her face fell. ‘Why did I never notice that, do you think?’

  ‘Because she didn’t want you to?’

  ‘You are right. How she hated questions, Maman. Almost as much as she hated being noticed.’

  ‘I would imagine that you would have caused a great deal of notice when you were growing up. Even as a child, if the picture in the locket is true to life, you were ridiculously lovely.’

  Celeste flushed. ‘It is just a trick of nature that makes my face appear beautiful you know. Symmetry...’

  ‘I don’t much care what it is. You have the kind of face and figure that turns heads wherever you go, as that dinner of Wellington’s proved.’ Jack touched her hair. ‘This alone must have got you noticed here in the south. The people here are generally very dark.’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘Yes, but you were sent off to school when you were ten, weren’t you?’ Jack said, looking much struck. ‘And to Paris, where you would not exactly blend in with the crowd, but nor would you be quite so distinctive.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Your mother patently came here to disappear. A daughter who would have every lad in the village setting his cap at her would hardly be conducive to anonymity.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous, Jack.’ Celeste rolled her eyes. ‘Though no more ridiculous than the idea of Maman being forced to go into hiding in the first place. And I suppose it is a little bit more palatable a story to swallow than that she wanted to be rid of me.’

  ‘I thought you had accepted by now that that simply wasn’t true.’

  ‘Oh, I think she loved me in her own way, but her own way was to make sure she didn’t show it. I don’t understand why.’ She brushed a tear away angrily. ‘Now you will think me a pathetic creature.’

  ‘I think you many things, but pathetic is not on the list.’ Jack dabbed at her cheeks with his kerchief. ‘The wind and the salt air are the very devil for making one’s eyes run.’

  Celeste managed a watery smile.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Jack said. ‘I have been so set on getting us here, that I have not thought about what an ordeal it will be for you.’

  ‘Not an ordeal. It’s just a house.’

  ‘Stuffed full of painful memories. Perhaps it would be best if you went to an inn, if there is such a thing here, and I can search the house.’

  ‘Jack, I am not precisely looking forward to going back to the house, but I do need to go. I’m sure if there’s anything to be found that you will find it, but you can’t lay my ghosts for me.’

  ‘When we first met, you were adamant that there were no ghosts to lay.’

  ‘When we first met, I was very sure about a good many things, and I have been quite wrong about almost every one. English cooking. English weather. Englishmen.’

  Surrendering to the urge to touch him, she flattened her palm over the roughness of his cheek. He caught her hand, pulling her tight up against him. ‘Celeste.’ His lips clung to hers for a long, tantalising moment, then he dragged his mouth away. ‘If you knew how much I have to struggle not to— If
you knew.’

  The feelings she had been working so hard to control made her snap. ‘If it is such a struggle, Jack, then perhaps we are wrong to deny it.’

  ‘We know we’re not.’

  ‘You know we are not,’ she said sadly, turning away. Out at sea, the sky was darkening. A wind had blown up. The tide was on the turn. The fisherman who had brought them here was already on his way, the boat scudding along the white-crested waves, heading back to Vallons des Auffes. Celeste pulled her cloak around her. ‘We should go,’ she said to Jack brusquely, picking up a portmanteau and striding ahead of him, along the jetty and into the village.

  * * *

  The house stood apart at the far end of the meandering street, at the opposite end of which stood the village church. The key was where it had always been kept, under a large plant pot to the side of the door. Celeste struggled to turn it in the lock. The salt water made everything rusty here. Jack edged her aside and pushed open the door. She steeled herself, but the only smell was of dust. She took a tentative step into the hallway. ‘It’s cold,’ she said, turning to Jack.

  He put down their bags and closed the door behind him. It creaked, just as it had always done. She’d forgotten. No, obviously she had not forgotten. She had rolled the carpets up when she was here the last time. Her feet echoed on the boards as she made her way to the sitting room. Her stomach was churning. As she opened the door, she realised she was half-expecting her mother to be there, sitting at the table by the window, making the best of the morning light, painting or embroidering or drawing.

  ‘Always doing something,’ she said to Jack. ‘My mother. Her hands were never still.’

  The furniture was covered in cloths, as she had left it. The grate was empty. The spaces on the walls where her mother’s paintings had hung were clearly marked. As she stepped into the room, her nose twitched. The dusty smell of watercolours assailed her, mingling with the dried lavender her mother kept in a bowl on the hearth. The bowl was empty. The watercolours were in Celeste’s Paris studio.