Isabella tore her gaze away from the esplanade and looked at her hostess in consternation. "I beg your pardon, ma'am? What child?"
Mrs. Goring looked flustered. "Oh dear, you look rather shocked, my love. I thought that you knew." She busied herself with the teapot, giving its contents a rather unnecessary stir. "Of course, you were quite young then—merely seventeen, if I have the dates correct, but even so, young girls are nowhere near as naive as people imagine them. And then word did get around, as these things do."
Isabella raised her hand. "Mrs. Goring, are you implying that my uncle had an illegitimate child?"
Mrs. Goring shuddered delicately at such frankness. "Well yes, my dear, I suppose I am. Everyone knew of it. Except you, evidently. It was the outcome of a dalliance with one of the maids, so I'm told. I am not precisely sure which one." Her brow wrinkled with disappointment as she realized she could not supply this detail of the tale.
"The child—it was a boy. . ." She paused. "Or was it a girl? No, I am sure it was a boy. . . . He was given to the gardener and his wife to bring up. They moved to London shortly after and the matter was never spoken of. But of course, everyone knew. . . . And Lord John so frail at the time." Mrs. Goring shook her head. "You would not have thought he had it in him! Still, one never knows with men. I suppose it took the last of his strength."
Isabella was silent, not with outrage, as her hostess might have supposed, but from sheer puzzlement. Lord John Southern had been devoted to his wife. There had never been the slightest hint of infidelity in all the years of their marriage, at least not as far as Isabella was aware. And then, as Mrs. Goring had intimated, Lord John had been a frail man in his last years and racked by recurrent illness. Such an image sat ill with the picture of a rampant old man chasing the housemaids.
"I had no idea," Isabella said slowly.
"No, well. . ." Mrs. Goring looked uncomfortable. "It was not a suitable matter for discussion with Lord John's niece, or his daughter for that matter. I am sure Miss India would have been very shocked had she known."
"What happened to the child?" Isabella asked.
Mrs. Goring looked surprised. "Well, do you know, I have no notion? He was never heard of again after the move to London. I imagine that Lord John provided for him, for he was a man who took his responsibilities seriously."
"Yes," Isabella said. "He was." She was thinking it odd that Mr. Churchward had told her of no encumbrance upon the Southern estate. There were no regular payments to anyone at all, beyond the annuities given to retired servants. Nor had Churchward hinted at any bar sinister in the family tree, which he would surely have told her when she'd inherited. She was no shrinking violet of a lady to be shocked by such worldly matters. Now that she thought about it, it seemed most odd. She wondered whether Marcus knew anything of the case and if so why he, too, had not mentioned it. It was as though this illegitimate son had disappeared as thoroughly as though he had never existed.
"More tea, my love?" Mrs. Goring urged. She waved the plate of Bath biscuits in Isabella's direction. "Do you see Miss Belling waving in that vulgar way at the gentleman? That hussy will stop at nothing to catch a husband. . . ."
Isabella smiled automatically and Mrs. Goring prattled on, but Isabella was not really listening. She was thinking about Lord John Southern and his illegitimate son. And despite all evidence to the contrary, Isabella could not shake her persistent conviction that her uncle had never fathered such a child at all.
Penelope Standish was most dissatisfied.
For the last seven days, since she had arrived in Salterton in company with Mr. Alistair Cantrell, he had seemed at best preoccupied and at worst utterly uninterested in her. He had danced with her at the Salterton Assembly, but no more than with any other young lady; he had escorted her to the circulating library and on her walks along the promenade, yet he seemed more animated when discussing with Freddie his plans for the day or taking a drink with him at the harborside tavern. In fact—perish the thought—Pen had started to wonder whether it was actually Freddie who had always held Alistair's interest and he had only been paying court to her in London in order to get close to the true object of his affections.
So that morning when they stopped on the esplanade to take a look at the sea, Pen was unsurprised to notice that, rather than scanning the horizon, Alistair's opera glasses were focused on the corner of Quay Street, where Freddie's figure could be ghmpsed hurrying into the Ship Inn. She sighed, both at the depressing sight of her brother hastening toward his first bottle of the day but also for her lost hopes, for she was obliged to admit that she had held high hopes of Mr. Cantrell. And thinking on this, and the fool she had made of herself, lit her temper, so that she burst out, "It seems to me, Mr. Cantrell, that it is my brother rather than the beauties of nature that occupy your sights!"
She saw Alistair Cantrell jump and he straightened up, the hand holding the opera glasses falling to his side. There was a flush of color on his cheeks and he looked slightly embarrassed. In fact he looked guilty. Pen's temper soared.
"For myself," she said coldly, "I have no opinion about a man who prefers his own sex over the charms of the female. However, I do feel very strongly about a man who deceives others in the pursuit of his own happiness."
Alistair looked extremely startled. Well he might, Pen thought. They were standing in the middle of the esplanade and were attracting considerable attention.
"Miss Standish, I do assure you—"
"From the start you led me to believe that / was the object of your affections," Pen said. "I resent being used, Mr. Cantrell, as a means for you to get close to my brother, who—"
"Miss Standish—" Alistair said with increasing urgency.
"Who," Pen pressed on, ignoring his interruption, "has not the least interest in men, being given to low female company instead. It pains me to break this piece of news to you, but in order to spare you future pain, I must ask you to desist in your attentions to Freddie."
Alistair grabbed her by the arms, yanked her to him and kissed her violently. Her parasol clattered to the ground unheeded.
"I have not the least romantic interest in your brother, you little goose," Alistair said. He kissed her again before Pen could reply and she melted into an embrace that was only slightly less urgent than the last.
"From the very first moment I saw you," Alistair said breathlessly the next time he let her go, "I thought you the most beautiful and infernally sharp-tongued creature it had ever been my pleasure to meet."
Pen was so enchanted by this accolade that it was she who drew his mouth back down to hers this time.
"But I never thought that you would have the folly to imagine that I lusted after your brother," Alistair finished. He shook her very gently. "It is you that I have been wanting from the first," he said, smiling down into her dazed blue eyes. "That night at the Royal Institution I wanted to seduce you. The night in the inn at Alresford I wanted to ravish you. And right now I would like to—"
Pen grabbed him again before he articulated his fantasies and, regardless of the scandalized glances of the passersby, they kissed and kissed again on the promenade of what had previously been a most respectable resort.
Isabella was intent on confronting her ghosts. She had been at her desk in the estate office all afternoon, for Marcus had that morning presented her with the deed of gift of Salterton and had, most gratifyingly, left her to get to know her new estate, saying only that he was there if she required his help. Yet no matter how Isabella tried to concentrate on milk yield and acreage, her thoughts returned with tiresome repetition to India Southern, her cousin and nemesis. In the end, she knew that she would have to act.
India was the final ghost of the past, the last thorn in her side. If Marcus was ever to be truly hers, Isabella would have to banish the shadow of her cousin and understand just what it was India had been to Marcus.
It was a long walk up four flights of stairs to reach the attics at Salterton House. Isabella k
new that the housekeeper would have arranged for India's trunks to be brought down for her if she had asked, but she wanted no one to know what she was doing. Specifically, she had not wanted Marcus to know. Guilt and uncertainty nibbled at her. In truth she was not entirely sure what she was doing, other than that she had certain suspicions about India, and that she had to understand her cousin and what had driven her if she was ever able to lay her memory to rest.
As Isabella climbed higher, the stairs narrowed and, on the final flight, the thick red carpet was replaced by hard-wearing jute matting. It was hot up here. A fly buzzed at the windowpane and Isabella's footsteps echoed on the treads. The sounds of the rest of the house were muted. She could have been alone in the world.
Opening the door softly, she stepped into the dim interior of the first attic. The room was shuttered, dark and hot, smelling of dust and neglect. A shiver traced down Isabella's spine. She found the chests that Mrs. Lawton had mentioned. There were two of them, piled on top of each other in one corner, the most distant from the window. She crossed the floor and pulled the first one out.
It was like opening a window onto the past.
The trunk was full of clothes. Walking dresses, day dresses, evening gowns, shawls and gloves, all in pastel colors, stacked upon one another in a pile of lavender-scented cloth and accessories. Isabella remembered that India had always favored pale colors and modest styles. It was very strange to see her entire wardrobe stored here. It looked faded and lifeless, like the ghost of India herself. At the bottom of the trunk was a pile of improving books.
The second case yielded all the other bits and pieces that told the story of India's life. There were tumbles of silk stockings, petticoats embroidered with lace, bodices and stays. There was a scattering of sheet music, a little yellowed about the edges. There was a soft bag containing filigree necklaces in delicate silver and gold. There was an artist's box with the dried paint flaking around the edges and a tambour frame for needlework. Isabella felt her throat close unexpectedly with tears. How sad to see the remains of India's life spread out before her like this, a little worn and smelling faintly of mothballs. . .
There was no diary. Isabella had been hoping for a diary, for she had known that India kept one. Her cousin had forever been scribbling secretively in it when they were children. But perhaps Marcus had destroyed it when India died. Or perhaps Lady Jane had done so. The Southerns had always been so concerned of what other people thought that no doubt they would not want India's diary falling into the wrong hands.
Isabella straightened up feeling vaguely disap-pointed. For all the evidence of India's life that was spread before her, there was not a single truly personal item to give a clue as to what had happened.
There was a click as something rolled out of the folds of a silk handkerchief and fell with a soft clatter onto the bare floorboards. Isabella bent to pick it up. It was a silver locket. She paused. It seemed prying to open it but she wanted to see the miniature inside. A watercolour of Lady Jane, perhaps, or Lord John. . . Or maybe even a picture of Marcus. . . Her heart jerked with a mixture of emotions at the thought but now she knew she had to look, even if it confirmed her worst fears of the unbreakable bond between Marcus and India, even if it broke her heart.
Her fingers shook slightly as she released the catch. The hinge was a little stiff but the locket opened reluctantly to spill its secret.
The picture was indeed that of a young man. Furthermore, it was a young man in the striking red uniform of His Majesty's Army. A young soldier with an arrogant smile, laughing, confident, a twinkle in his eye. . .he would have a swagger in his step and the panache of a man who knows he can take what he wants and snap his fingers in the face of the world. . .
With a shiver like the brush of a cobweb across her face, Isabella recalled another memory—a handsome young army lieutenant introducing himself to her and to India in the Assembly Rooms thirteen years before.
He had spoken to Isabella as the elder cousin, but his eyes had been on India the whole time. Isabella had been intrigued; it was not often that her quiet cousin eclipsed her. She had been a little piqued, too, which was only natural. But then the young man had bowed deeply to India and asked for her hand in the dance and Isabella had smiled ruefully to see them go off together with eyes for no one else in the room.
She had only met him the once. Until this moment, she had not even remembered that he was the same man who had come to the Assembly Rooms a year later and been thrown out for his trouble. He was the man whom Pen had said used to meet India secretly, the suitor her parents had apparently sent away.
Isabella sat down heavily on the edge of one of the trunks. The call of the seabirds came to her softly here, mingling with the breeze along the roof and the distant crash of breakers in the bay. The air felt hot and oppressive. A lock of hair, caught within the locket, drifted down on the air to scatter on the floorboards. Isabella bent automatically to gather it up again. The hair was fine and baby soft. It was flaxen: blonder than India, fairer than her own had been as a child before it had darkened in the way that children's hair often did with age. It was tied with a small blue ribbon.
Isabella placed the lock of hair carefully within the locket and snapped the catch shut. Her mind was full of images of India, mingled with Pen's words and those of Mrs. Goring. India fatter and happy, then thinner and sad. . .a mysterious trip to Scotland by her cousin and Lady Jane. . .a lock of hair, and a miniature. . .a rumor of Lord John's by-blow that she had thought from the beginning must be impossible. . . A handsome young lieutenant making a scene in the Assembly Rooms and Lord John having him ejected in a rage. . . .
She gave a violent shiver in the warm air. The locket rested in the palm of her hand and her fingers closed tightly over it. She knew India's secret now.
Isabella was not sure how long she sat in the dusty attic room, the locket enclosed in her palm. When she finally stood up, the silver links of the chain had scored her hand and she winced a little. She closed the trunks and made her way wearily downstairs. She knew that she had to speak to Marcus now, and she quailed to think of it.
She pushed open the door of the study. Marcus was sitting at the desk by the window. Bright morning sunlight spilled through the panes and polished the patina of the wood to a deep shine. Marcus was reading a book about engineering, his glasses poised on the end of his nose. He was quite still and so utterly engrossed that he did not appear to hear her entry.
For a moment, Isabella watched him. His brow was furrowed with concentration and the sun picked out the tiny strands of gray in his hair. Neither of us, Isabella thought, are young anymore. She felt such a powerful rush of love for him then that she must have made some involuntary movement, for he looked up. After a moment, he smiled and put the book down. Isabella's heart started to race.
"Good afternoon," he said. "What may I do for you, Isabella?"
"Marcus," Isabella said. She stopped. Suddenly the thought of broaching the subject of India seemed so remote and impossible that she almost turned tail and ran. How could she do this? Marcus would be angry with her for rifling through his late wife's effects. As for the suggestions—accusations—that she was about to make. . .well, he could only greet those with contempt. He would be bitterly hurt and his memories despoiled. She loved him too much to do that to him. And yet she was sure she held the key to the mystery of Edward Warwick in her hand and she had to tell him. She could not keep silent any longer.
"I wanted to talk to you," she said. "It is about India. Marcus, it is important."
His smile faded. She saw the withdrawal in his eyes. It was the same expression he always assumed at any reference to India. It set her at a distance. But this time she was determined to persist.
"Please, Marcus," she said. "I realize that this must be very difficult for you."
There was a flicker of something in his eyes. "Yes," he said slowly. "It is difficult but I have been meaning to speak of her to you for some time."
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Isabella paused. "Oh?"
Marcus gestured her to a seat and she sank down onto the cushions. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.
"There is something that I have to tell you, Bella."
The silence spun out like a spider's web between them. Isabella waited, her heart beating in her throat.
"I never loved India," Marcus said baldly. "God knows, I tried hard enough but I could not do it. I pretended that I loved her—I pretended it to myself and to everyone else, but I always knew that it was false. Even at the point of marriage, when we made our vows, I knew it for the mistake it was. I married the wrong cousin and I knew it from the start." He looked at Isabella's white face and a faint smile touched his lips. "You seem startled, Bella. Did you not suspect?"
Isabella found her voice. "I. . .I am astounded. I had not the least suspicion in the world. I thought you devoted to her in life and to her memory now."
Marcus grimaced. He leaned against the edge of the desk and crossed his arms.
"Why on earth did you think that?"
"Why?" Isabella paused. She had misread him badly and caused herself considerable pain as a result, but she had only been basing her judgment on his behavior. There had been evidence enough.
"Where do I begin?" she said. "You were so hot to defend her when we spoke in London. You accused me of ruining her relationship with her mother. You believed her word over mine. At every turn you showed that she still held your love and loyalty." She stared unseeing at the pattern on the Turkey rug feeling indignant as well as upset.
"When you told me about the fire and I found out that you had left India's chamber untouched since her death, what was I to think?" she burst out. "It was like a shrine to the memory of your dead wife! And I knew that I—" She stopped and swallowed hard.
"That you. . . what?"
"That I could never compete with her memory, that you would never love me as you had loved her, that your heart was not free to love again." Isabella stopped and stared at him. "Why did you not tell me the truth of your feelings for her?" she demanded. "Why did you keep all the pictures and mementos of India, and leave her chamber untouched, unless it was because it was too painful for you to do aught else?"
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