Secrets

Secrets Page 22

by Brenda Joyce

  She ma­na­ged to sle­ep a few ho­urs, but only be­ca­use she was ex­ha­us­ted. And when she slept, she had a stran­ge dre­am.

  The­re was a tra­in. She was on it as it sped thro­ugh the dar­k­ness. She was af­ra­id. And then the dar­k­ness be­ca­me light, bright vi­vid sun­light, but the tra­in was go­ing even fas­ter and she was even mo­re frig­h­te­ned. The­re we­re pe­op­le. Sha­dowy, fa­ce­less pe­op­le, frig­h­te­ned pe­op­le.

  She wo­ke with a start.

  She was co­ve­red with swe­at and sha­king. She snap­ped on the lamp by her bed, pan­ting. It was only a dre­am, she told her­self. But the fe­ar did not ease. Her he­ad ac­hed. And then she tho­ught abo­ut how re­al it was, how it felt li­ke it had ac­tu­al­ly hap­pe­ned. And she gas­ped, won­de­ring if it had be­en a dre­am or a me­mory.

  She co­ve­red her fa­ce with her hands, sha­king. The fe­eling of be­ing on a tra­in fil­led with frig­h­te­ned pe­op­le ha­un­ted her. She co­uld still fe­el her ter­ror. And it was so re­al. As if it had hap­pe­ned. She sus­pec­ted that it had hap­pe­ned.

  What if her me­mory was re­tur­ning?

  God, she didn't want to know!

  She was get­ting mar­ri­ed in two days. Mar­ri­ed to Sla­de. She didn't ca­re abo­ut what had hap­pe­ned du­ring the tra­in rob­bery, and, mo­re im­por­tantly, she did not want to re­mem­ber James or her fe­elings for him. And most im­por­tant of all, she didn't want to know who she was-just in ca­se she wasn't Eli­za­beth Sin­c­la­ir.

  Re­gi­na got up to chan­ge her so­aking-wet nig­ht-clot­hes. Her body still trem­b­led. She co­uld not stop the en­c­ro­ac­hing fe­eling of dre­ad. She had to fa­ce it. She was al­most cer­ta­in that she had be­en re­mem­be­ring

  the tra­in du­ring the rob­bery, not just dre­aming. "I don't want to re­mem­ber!" she cri­ed fran­ti­cal­ly. "I am Eli­za­beth!"

  She yan­ked open the dra­wer to her bu­re­au, trying not to suc­cumb to hyste­ria. Blindly, she pul­led out anot­her nig­h­t­gown. When she did, so­met­hing which had be­en tuc­ked in its folds fell to the flo­or.

  Re­gi­na sta­red at her loc­ket.

  She cri­ed out, go­ing down to her kne­es. It was the sa­me loc­ket which had be­en sto­len from her trunk yes­ter­day. She clas­ped it to her bre­ast. She was wildly glad to ha­ve it back, as if it was ter­ribly me­anin­g­ful to her, yet she was shoc­ked that it sho­uld ap­pe­ar among her things af­ter be­ing sto­len. Her ga­ze flew to the do­ors of her ro­om, the set which was bar­red to the cor­ri­dor, and the set which was bar­red to the co­ur­t­yard.

  Who­ever had sto­len it had de­ci­ded to re­turn it. Who­ever had sto­len it had be­en he­re, in her ro­om, aga­in. Who­ever had ta­ken it in the first pla­ce had de­ci­ded that he or she no lon­ger ne­eded it. But why? What co­uld this loc­ket ha­ve told so­me­one?

  Re­gi­na whim­pe­red, ope­ning it. The pretty girl who lo­oked up at her from the da­gu­er­re­ot­y­pe was un­fa­mi­li­ar, but her he­art le­aped at the sight, as if in wel­co­me. She tur­ned the loc­ket over, sta­ring at the ini­ti­als RS. Sud­denly a pa­in lan­ced thro­ugh her skull so se­ve­rely she re­eled and was dizzy.

  If she clo­sed her eyes and tho­ught, she knew she wo­uld know the iden­tity of the yo­ung lady in the loc­ket.

  Re­gi­na jum­ped to her fe­et, pa­cing the ro­om in a frenzy, the loc­ket on the flo­or. Did the thi­ef know her iden­tity? Was that why the loc­ket had be­en re­tur­ned?

  The yo­ung lady's ima­ge re­tur­ned with a ven­ge­an­ce to her mind. "I am Eli­za­beth!" she cri­ed aga­in, clap­ping her hands over her ears and scre­wing her eyes shut.

  She co­uld see a lo­co­mo­ti­ve chug­ging in­to a sta­ti­on, the words So­ut­hern Pa­ci­fic Co­ast Li­ne pa­in­ted boldly in

  gold on its si­des. She be­gan to pant. Su­rely she had se­en a hun­d­red tra­ins li­ke this pul­ling in­to a hun­d­red de­pots li­ke this. Su­rely this was not me­mory, me­rely ima­gi­na­ti­on!

  But a per­fectly cle­ar re­col­lec­ti­on ca­me to her. She was dres­sed in her be­a­uti­ful ivory-and-whi­te en­sem­b­le, the sa­me su­it that she had worn the day she had ar­ri­ved in Tem­p­le­ton-the day of the rob­bery. It was not dirty, sta­ined, or wrin­k­led, but crisply pres­sed and span­king-cle­an. She was abo­ut to bo­ard the tra­in. The de­pot was crow­ded and busy. But she was not alo­ne. For a small, ol­der wo­man sto­od be­si­de her dres­sed in navy-blue and whi­te. Mrs. Ca­ro­li­ne Schro­ener.

  Re­gi­na sob­bed.

  And anot­her ima­ge for­med swiftly upon the he­els of that one. A splen­did sto­ne man­si­on set in the midst of wet, rol­ling gre­en lawns with vib­rant red ro­ses cre­eping up its walls. Drag­mo­re, her ho­me.

  As cle­ar as day, her pa­rents' fa­ces lo­omed be­fo­re her, the Earl and Co­un­tess of Drag­mo­re. The co­un­tess-the yo­ung girl in the loc­ket.

  She was not Eli­za­beth Sin­c­la­ir. She was Re­gi­na Shel­ton.

  She drop­ped her hands and ope­ned her eyes and lis­te­ned to the wild be­ating of her he­art. She sho­uld be ec­s­ta­tic. Her me­mory had re­tur­ned as sud­denly as it had go­ne. But she sat fro­zen, shoc­ked. She was not Eli­za­beth Sin­c­la­ir af­ter all. Her sus­pi­ci­ons had be­en cor­rect. De­ar Lord.

  It to­ok a mo­ment to adj­ust. She be­gan to bre­at­he mo­re nor­mal­ly. She was Re­gi­na Shel­ton. She was no lon­ger men­tal­ly crip­pled. Re­li­ef star­ted to flo­od her. She was Re­gi­na Bragg Shel­ton. Her world was no lon­ger a va­cu­um of not­hin­g­ness, a long dark tun­nel that she, a blind per­son, at­tem­p­ted to tra­ver­se. She was Re­gi­na Shel­ton. She was not alo­ne in the world. She had pa­rents she lo­ved, pa­rents she trus­ted, pa­rents whom she co­uld co­unt on. She had two fi­ne brot­hers and a won­der­ful sis­ter, the Duc­hess of Clay­bo­ro­ugh. And she had many re­la­ti­ves he­re in Ame­ri­ca.

  Then she re­cal­led how it had all be­gun, with the tra­in rob­bery, and she fro­ze. She sat ab­so­lu­tely mo­ti­on­less, re­mem­be­ring how the out­law had vi­ci­o­usly rob­bed the wo­man in the pink-and-whi­te dress, te­aring her ear-bobs from her ears, rip­ping her nec­k­la­ce from her thro­at. She crin­ged, re­cal­ling too vi­vidly how he had struck the yo­ung gen­t­le­man with his gun. Oh, God.

  Just re­mem­be­ring ma­de her he­ad hurt. Re­mem­be­ring ma­de her he­art po­und with the sa­me wren­c­hing fe­ar. No won­der she had be­en af­ra­id to re­mem­ber. No won­der she had bol­ted and le­aped from a spe­eding tra­in. She did not da­re try to ima­gi­ne what might ha­ve hap­pe­ned to her had she not jum­ped to sa­fety. And that was the last thing she re­mem­be­red, hur­ling thro­ugh the air, ti­me sus­pen­ded, the gro­und re­ac­hing up for her. She re­mem­be­red thin­king, ter­ri­fi­ed, that she was go­ing to bre­ak her neck. And that was the very last in­s­tant she re­cal­led, the split se­cond be­fo­re im­pact.

  She didn't know whet­her to la­ugh or cry. She did both. She sob­bed and cho­ked on la­ug­h­ter for a long ti­me. She hadn't bro­ken her neck, she had es­ca­ped the vi­ci­o­us out­law, and she was ali­ve. She had be­en da­ringly bra­ve, ac­ting in a man­ner mo­re su­ited to her sis­ter, a hoy­den, than to her­self, the so very pro­per Re­gi­na Shel­ton. She la­ug­hed aga­in, exul­tant. She was Re­gi­na Bragg Shel­ton-she was not alo­ne in the world an­y­mo­re.

  Sud­denly Re­gi­na stra­ig­h­te­ned. De­ar Lord! How ever­yo­ne must be wor­ri­ed abo­ut her. She had be­en on her way to the ho­tel in Pa­so Rob­les to vi­sit with her Un­c­le Brett and Aunt Storm, to enj­oy the baths, be­fo­re go­ing on to San Fran­cis­co with them. But she had ne­ver ar­ri­ved. Not only had she ne­ver ar­ri­ved, she had just di­sap­pe­ared.

  Oh, God! And Mrs. Schro­ener was de­ad! She was ali
­ve, but that swe­et old wo­man was de­ad! Re­gi­na's he­art bro­ke. She re­mem­be­red be­ing told that Mrs. Schro­ener had tri­ed to in­ter­fe­re with the ban­dit cha­sing her. Fresh te­ars spil­led. Mrs. Schro­ener had di­ed be­ca­use she had tri­ed to pro­tect her.

  When Re­gi­na had cal­med so­mew­hat over the kind cha­pe­ro­ne's de­ath, she be­gan to worry abo­ut her fa­mily. By now her pa­rents wo­uld ha­ve ar­ri­ved back in En­g­land, only to re­ce­ive word of the­ir da­ug­h­ter's di­sap­pe­aran­ce. Her gran­d­pa­rents wo­uld al­so ha­ve be­en in­for­med. They must all be hyste­ri­cal, and as had hap­pe­ned when Lucy had be­en ab­duc­ted in '87, a mas­si­ve se­arch for her had un­do­ub­tedly be­gun. She wo­uld ha­ve to in­form her gran­d­pa­rents and aunt and un­c­le of her whe­re­abo­uts im­me­di­ately. She was cer­ta­in her pa­rents had bo­ar­ded the first ste­amer bo­und for Ame­ri­ca, and even now we­re on the­ir way back ac­ross the At­lan­tic. She tho­ught of how frig­h­te­ned they must be. As so­on as her pa­rents step­ped upon Ame­ri­can sho­res, they wo­uld be in­for­med as well, but un­til then they wo­uld be suf­fe­ring over her di­sap­pe­aran­ce ne­ed­les­sly.

  She swal­lo­wed. She wo­uld ha­ve to in­form Sla­de and his fa­mily that she was not Eli­za­beth Sin­c­la­ir, too.

  Re­gi­na be­ca­me still. The ra­mi­fi­ca­ti­ons of the truth hit her. Trem­b­ling, she co­ve­red her fa­ce with her hands, all the jubi­la­ti­on go­ne. She was not Eli­za­beth Sin­c­la­ir, she was not Ge­or­ge Sin­c­la­ir's da­ug­h­ter, she was not the girl Rick lo­ved as if she we­re his own da­ug­h­ter. He was go­ing to be very sur­p­ri­sed when he re­ali­zed that he had mis­ta­ken her for Eli­za­beth af­ter not se­e­ing her for fi­ve ye­ars. But Re­gi­na did not ca­re abo­ut Rick. James no lon­ger sto­od bet­we­en her and Sla­de, but she co­uld not be glad. The truth sto­od bet­we­en her and Sla­de now.

  It hit her hard. She was not go­ing to marry Sla­de. The wed­ding wo­uld be cal­led off. For un­do­ub­tedly the re­al Eli­za­beth Sin­c­la­ir wo­uld be fo­und. Per­haps she was al­re­ady on her way to Mi­ra­mar. And Eli­za­beth wo­uld be per­su­aded to marry Sla­de on­ce she had be­en in­for­med of James's de­ath. No wo­man co­uld be in­dif­fe­rent to Sla­de, and she was ex­pec­ting to marry in­to the De­lan­za fa­mily, had be­en ex­pec­ting that for fi­ve long ye­ars.

  Her sto­mach lur­c­hed. She felt cold and clammy. She wo­uld tell ever­yo­ne that she was Re­gi­na Shel­ton and she wo­uld go on her way. She wo­uld in fact be han­ding Sla­de over to the re­al Eli­za­beth Sin­c­la­ir.

  She clen­c­hed her fists. She did not want Sla­de to marry the re­al Eli­za­beth Sin­c­la­ir. She did not want him to marry anot­her wo­man. She co­uld not be­ar the tho­ught. She wan­ted to be his wi­fe.

  For a mo­ment she tri­ed to think calmly abo­ut what wo­uld hap­pen if she told the De­lan­zas that she was Re­gi­na Shel­ton. She was al­so an he­iress. Co­uld she per­su­ade them to al­low her to marry Sla­de in­s­te­ad of Eli­za­beth?

  She didn't know. Rick had be­en so ada­mant abo­ut how he felt abo­ut Ge­or­ge and Eli­za­beth. She was af­ra­id. If she to­ok the chan­ce and fa­iled, she wo­uld lo­se Sla­de to the ot­her wo­man. And what if her fat­her de­man­ded she wa­it un­til he co­uld ap­pro­ve of Sla­de him­self? What if he di­sap­pro­ved of Sla­de?

  The risks we­re too gre­at. She co­uld not gi­ve Sla­de up to anot­her wo­man. She co­uld not.

  Hot co­lor flo­oded her che­eks. What she was thin­king of do­ing was wrong, ter­ribly wrong. Did she da­re? Did she da­re to not tell ever­yo­ne the truth? Did she da­re to con­ti­nue this de­cep­ti­on? Did she da­re to pre­tend to be Eli­za­beth Sin­c­la­ir? And marry Sla­de on Sun­day as plan­ned?

  Re­gi­na co­ve­red her mo­uth with her hands, ag­hast. Oh, God! She wan­ted to marry Sla­de! She lo­ved him! She co­uld not gi­ve him up to anot­her wo­man, she co­uld not! She had no ot­her cho­ice!

  She wo­uld ha­ve to ke­ep her iden­tity a sec­ret. She wo­uld ha­ve to lie. Kno­wing her­self now, aga­in, she knew she was not a li­ar. She had ne­ver be­en a li­ar. She had al­ways be­en do­ci­le and obe­di­ent, even when she had mis­ta­kenly tho­ught her­self to be in lo­ve with Lord Hor­ten­se. Of co­ur­se, now she knew she had ne­ver be­en in lo­ve be­fo­re. How glad she was that her fat­her had re­j­ec­ted Hor­ten­se! She had res­pec­ted his de­ci­si­on. She had al­ways be­en the ide­al of a pro­per lady. Sin­ce she had co­me to Mi­ra­mar, the­re had be­en lit­tle that was pro­per or ide­al abo­ut her tho­ughts. And now she was abo­ut to do the un­t­hin­kab­le, so­met­hing no pro­per yo­ung lady wo­uld ever do. She was abo­ut to vi­ola­te the co­de of con­duct every gen­t­le­wo­man li­ved by.

  She got to her fe­et. She had a mo­nu­men­tal de­ci­si­on to ma­ke. To tell the truth and go on her way, or to con­ti­nue this cha­ra­de and marry Sla­de De­lan­za. you, Eli­za­beth Sin­c­la­ir, ta­ke this man, Sla­de De­lan­za, to lo­ve and to ho­nor un­til de­ath do you part?"

  The jud­ge had re­pe­ated the qu­es­ti­on.

  Re­gi­na sto­od be­si­de Sla­de in the den. Be­hind them sto­od the fa­mily; in front of them was Jud­ge Ben Ste­iner. The­re we­re no gu­ests, no or­gan, no mi­nis­ter, and the­re we­re only two small flo­ral ar­ran­ge­ments in the ro­om. She was be­ing mar­ri­ed on a sim­p­le ranch in Ca­li­for­nia, not in a so­aring cat­hed­ral in Lon­don. Her pa­rents we­ren't the­re, her brot­hers we­ren't the­re, her sis­ter and her hus­band we­ren't the­re. No­ne of her fa­mily was the­re.

  She wo­re a sim­p­le whi­te dress with a high la­ce-ed­ged col­lar and leg-o'-mut­ton sle­eves. It was pretty eno­ugh. But it wasn't the fan­tas­tic cre­ati­on she had al­ways en­vi­si­oned. She car­ri­ed a bo­uqu­et of oran­ge ro­ses pic­ked from the bus­hes in the co­ur­t­yard out­si­de, but she had no ve­il. Not­hing was the way she had al­ways dre­amed her wed­ding wo­uld be.

  And now was not the ti­me to no­ti­ce the dif­fe­ren­ce, or to reg­ret it, or to worry abo­ut what she was do­ing.

  Sla­de hadn't lo­oked at her sin­ce she had first en­te­red the ro­om. He sto­od stiffly by her si­de, li­ke a sol­di­er at at­ten­ti­on. But when she had first ap­pe­ared on Rick's arm, he had do­ne mo­re than lo­ok. He had sta­red, his eyes vi­sibly brig­h­te­ning. Re­gi­na had be­en over­w­ro­ught with ner­ves, and his open ap­pre­ci­ati­on of the pretty pic­tu­re she ma­de had so­ot­hed her in­s­tantly. But only tem­po­ra­rily. When Jud­ge Ste­iner star­ted the ce­re­mony, ner­vo­us­ness be­set her, along with gu­ilt.

  Sla­de fi­nal­ly tur­ned his he­ad. His eyes we­re wi­de, in­c­re­du­lo­us. Re­gi­na met his ga­ze and knew that if she didn't get the words out, if she hu­mi­li­ated him now, he wo­uld ne­ver for­gi­ve her.

  Co­uld she re­al­ly do it? Co­uld she re­al­ly con­ti­nue this de­cep­ti­on? What she was do­ing was wrong, so ter­ribly wrong.

  Jud­ge Ste­iner lo­oked at her. From be­hind them, Rick co­ug­hed. Vic­to­ria's pink dress rus­t­led. Josep­hi­ne snif­fed. She had be­en crying all day. A flo­or­bo­ard cre­aked as Ed­ward shif­ted his we­ight. And be­si­de her, Sla­de had tur­ned to sta­re stra­ight ahe­ad, ri­gid and sto­lid, li­ke a martyr ac­cep­ting his fa­te.

  "I do," she whis­pe­red.

  The jud­ge sig­hed with re­li­ef.

  Re­gi­na re­gar­ded Sla­de. Te­ars blur­red her vi­si­on. She had do­ne it, she had do­ne the un­t­hin­kab­le, she had de­ce­ived the man she lo­ved. He re­fu­sed to me­et her ga­ze, sta­ring at the wall be­hind the jud­ge.

  "Then I pro­no­un­ce you man and wi­fe," Jud­ge Ste­iner sa­id. He smi­led at Sla­de. "You can kiss the bri­de."

  Sla­de didn't mo­ve. A mus­c­le in
his jaw fle­xed. Re­gi­na was per­s­pi­ring pro­fu­sely, mo­re now than be­fo­re. De­ar God, she had do­ne it! But her he­si­ta­ti­on had up­set her hus­band im­men­sely. How co­uld she ex­p­la­in her be­ha­vi­or to him? Wor­se, how wo­uld she ex­p­la­in her de­cep­ti­on to him la­ter?

  Abruptly Sla­de shif­ted and le­aned for­ward and to­uc­hed his mo­uth to hers. It was the ba­rest brus­hing of the­ir lips and it was over be­fo­re it had be­gun. For an in­s­tant he lo­oked at her. Re­gi­na ma­na­ged a fra­gi­le smi­le in re­turn, a te­ar slip­ping down her che­ek. His ex­p­res­si­on ten­sed. The­ir ga­zes re­ma­ined loc­ked for anot­her he­ar­t­be­at. And then, to her ut­ter sur­p­ri­se, he wi­ped the te­ar away with the blunt tip of his fo­re­fin­ger.

  He tur­ned from her just as they we­re swam­ped by the fa­mily.

  Jud­ge Ste­iner sig­hed aga­in.

  Re­gi­na swal­lo­wed hard. She qu­ickly fo­und her han­d­ker­c­hi­ef and dab­bed at her eyes. Any reg­ret or worry she might ha­ve had was go­ne. She was now Sla­de's wi­fe. At le­ast, she tho­ught that she was. She fer­vently ho­ped that she was. She had mar­ri­ed him un­der an ali­as, but it had be­en she, Re­gi­na, stan­ding be­si­de him ma­king her vows, it had be­en she, Re­gi­na, not Eli­za­beth Sin­c­la­ir, who had re­ce­ived his ring, which she now wo­re. She was the one who had pled­ged to lo­ve and ho­nor him for the rest of the­ir li­fe­ti­mes, un­til de­ath se­pa­ra­ted them. She trem­b­led, and wat­c­hed Ed­ward con­g­ra­tu­la­ting Sla­de. Ed­ward was smi­ling, but Sla­de was not.

  Over Ed­ward's sho­ul­der the­ir glan­ces met aga­in, for a lon­ger mo­ment. Re­gi­na's bre­ath ca­ught. She co­uld not de­cip­her his ex­p­res­si­on, just as she had not be­en ab­le to com­p­re­hend what his ten­der ges­tu­re had me­ant an in­s­tant ago. She pra­yed he was co­ming to ca­re for her. Why el­se wo­uld he wi­pe away her te­ar?

 

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