Secrets

by Brenda Joyce

  It al­so se­emed that her fe­elings for him had be­en te­nu­o­us to be­gin with. That wo­uld be per­fectly lo­gi­cal. It wo­uld ex­p­la­in her abo­ut-fa­ce. But the­re was a pos­si­bi­lity, a fra­gi­le one, one he sho­uld not bro­ach, one he co­uld not ig­no­re. "Re­gi­na. You ca­red for me on­ce. You co­uld ca­re for me aga­in."

  "No! I was so­rely de­lu­ded!"

  He stif­fe­ned. He slip­ped on an im­pe­net­rab­le mask. That she had on­ce tho­ught him to be so­me sort of he­ro had be­en a de­lu­si­on and he was well awa­re of it. He was equ­al­ly awa­re that the­re was a world of dif­fe­ren­ce bet­we­en them and that with her ha­ting him now, he sho­uld do as she as­ked and gi­ve her a di­vor­ce and just walk away from her. In­s­te­ad, he sa­id, "We'll fi­nish this anot­her ti­me."

  "No!" she cri­ed. "I want to fi­nish this dis­cus­si­on now! Brett has a copy of tho­se pa­pers. Ple­ase sign them!"

  He squ­ared his sho­ul­ders. "No, Re­gi­na."

  "No?"

  He ma­de his de­ci­si­on, an ir­ra­ti­onal and fo­olish one that was ho­pe­les­sly aga­inst the odds. "I'm not go­ing to di­vor­ce you."

  "No? You ha­ve ma­de up yo­ur mind?"

  He wal­ked to the do­or, whe­re he pa­used. "I ha­ve ma­de up my mind."

  "De­ar Lord, why? Why are you do­ing this?"

  "Be­ca­use James is no lon­ger bet­we­en us." With that, he let him­self out.

  Re­gi­na slowly des­cen­ded the wi­de, gra­ce­ful mar­b­le sta­ir­ca­se, her hand on the wro­ug­ht-iron ba­nis­ter. She grip­ped the smo­oth me­tal much too tightly. Why had Xan­d­ria Kingsly co­me cal­ling on her? She an­ti­ci­pa­ted what co­uld only be a very ugly sce­ne. She sho­uld ha­ve re­fu­sed to see her, but for so­me re­ason, she co­uld not.

  She had not slept a wink the night be­fo­re. Sla­de's vi­sit had ha­un­ted her, ap­pal­ling her, in­fu­ri­ating her. He had the ut­ter gall to sug­gest she co­uld co­me to ca­re for him aga­in-when he had de­ser­ted her, when he had this ot­her wo­man in his li­fe. It was a new day, but Re­gi­na co­uld not stop dwel­ling on the­ir con­f­ron­ta­ti­on of the night be­fo­re. And now anot­her con­f­ron­ta­ti­on lo­omed be­fo­re her, one des­ti­ned to be equ­al­ly as dis­t­res­sing.

  The ma­j­or­do­mo, a short, im­pas­si­ve Japa­ne­se man, sho­wed Re­gi­na to the mor­ning sa­lon, for it was just no­on. The ro­om was lar­ge and bright. Al­t­ho­ugh the flo­or was the sa­me tawny mar­b­le as the en­ti­re gro­und flo­or and the sta­irs, it was co­ve­red with a hu­ge, cus­tom-ma­de Chi­ne­se rug that was vi­vidly and pre­do­mi­nantly gold. The en­ti­re ro­om was do­ne in many sha­des of yel­low, so that des­pi­te the mor­ning fog, the ef­fect was inor­di­na­tely che­er­ful.

  Xan­d­ria was sit­ting on a flo­ral-pat­ter­ned chintz so­fa. She wo­re a be­a­uti­ful­ly cut ro­se-red en­sem­b­le, the jac­ket fit­ted and de­sig­ned to show off her small wa­ist and full bo­som, the skirts fla­ring just slightly af­ter hin­ting at her full hips. Even her glo­ves, which she had re­mo­ved, we­re a sha­de of ro­se. She smi­led and sto­od up when she saw Re­gi­na.

  Re­gi­na gre­eted her as po­li­tely as pos­sib­le, gi­ven her stiff ex­p­res­si­on. Ca­re­less of whet­her they had ref­res­h­ments, she sat on the ot­her end of the so­fa, fa­cing her un­wan­ted gu­est. She clas­ped her hands tightly in her lap. "This is a sur­p­ri­se, Mrs. Kingsly."

  "I do not me­an to in­t­ru­de, Mrs. De­lan­za," Xan­d­ria sa­id ear­nestly. "But I want so much to ma­ke yo­ur ac­qu­a­in­tan­ce."

  Re­gi­na co­uld not even be­gin to gu­ess the ot­her wo­man's mo­ti­va­ti­on. And she'd had eno­ugh of this cha­ra­de. "Let me be blunt, Mrs. Kingsly," Re­gi­na sa­id coldly. "I ha­ve no idea why you wo­uld call on me. I can only gu­ess you think me an ut­ter fo­ol. I as­su­re you, I am not."

  Xan­d­ria ga­ped at her.

  Very angry and fi­nal­ly let­ting it show, Re­gi­na sa­id, "I do not ca­re one whit abo­ut yo­ur re­la­ti­on­s­hip with my hus­band. If Sla­de has not told you all, then I am happy to do so. I am di­vor­cing him. As so­on as that is ac­com­p­lis­hed, I shall be out of his li­fe fo­re­ver. And he shall be yo­urs."

  "Oh, de­ar," Xan­d­ria sa­id.

  Re­gi­na sto­od. It sho­uld not mat­ter to her, but she ha­ted the ot­her wo­man. Je­alo­usy ta­un­ted her. She sho­uld al­so be be­yond cru­de spe­cu­la­ti­on, but she won­de­red hel­p­les­sly if Sla­de da­red use his mis­t­ress as he had used her. The ot­her wo­man had a cer­ta­in lo­ok abo­ut her, a cer­ta­in walk, a cer­ta­in style, all tu­ne­les­sly se­duc­ti­ve, and Re­gi­na did not do­ubt it.

  "Mrs. De­lan­za, I fe­ar you ha­ve jum­ped to a ter­ribly wrong con­c­lu­si­on."

  "Ple­ase." Re­gi­na ges­tu­red at the do­or.

  Xan­d­ria ro­se gra­ce­ful­ly to her fe­et. She was much tal­ler than Re­gi­na. "I am not in­vol­ved, in any way, with yo­ur hus­band! Ex­cept as a de­ar fri­end."

  "Of co­ur­se."

  "Mrs. De­lan­za, Sla­de is li­ke a brot­her to me! I ha­ve known him, and ca­red for him, fo^ ten long ye­ars! Sin­ce he was a sulky lit­tle re­bel! Do you re­al­ly think we wo­uld carry on in such a man­ner be­ne­ath my fat­her's no­se?"

  Re­gi­na was hor­ri­fi­ed as the wo­man's full iden­tity be­gan to dawn on her. "Who is yo­ur fat­her?"

  Aga­in Xan­d­ria lo­oked sur­p­ri­sed. "Char­les Mann."

  The flo­or be­ne­ath Re­gi­na's fe­et felt as if it had til­ted pre­ca­ri­o­usly. She sat down hard on the so­fa. "Oh, Lord!"

  Xan­d­ria sat be­si­de her. "Are you all right?"

  Re­gi­na co­uld not be­li­eve the enor­mity of her mis­ta­ke. She was red with mor­ti­fi­ca­ti­on. She had be­en so qu­ick to ac­cu­se and con­demn. Un­con­t­rol­lab­le je­alo­usy had pro­pel­led her, not com­mon sen­se. She was ap­pal­led with her­self. "Oh! Ple­ase for­gi­ve me!"

  Kindly, Xan­d­ria pat­ted her hand. "The­re is not­hing to for­gi­ve. Of co­ur­se you co­uld not know I was Char­les's da­ug­h­ter. Stu­pid Sla­de! Why didn't he tell you?"

  She bit her lip, not da­ring to lo­ok her gu­est in the eye yet. "He did not know what I was thin­king." And she pra­yed he wo­uld ne­ver know she had ma­de such a ter­rib­le mis­ta­ke.

  "Mrs. De­lan­za," Xan­d­ria sa­id, sud­denly smi­ling and amu­sed, "do not fe­ar. Yo­ur sec­ret is sa­fe with me."

  Over­w­ro­ught, clo­se to te­ars, Re­gi­na fi­nal­ly met the ot­her wo­man's ga­ze. Xan­d­ria win­ked. "Thank you!" Re­gi­na cri­ed.

  "I want not­hing mo­re than to be yo­ur fri­end," Xan­d­ria sa­id simply.

  Re­gi­na lo­oked at her hands. "I see." She had to fa­ce the ot­her wo­man, who had eased her he­art im­me­asu­rably, and who was her co-con­s­pi­ra­tor now. "Mrs. Kingsly, I ha­ve er­red gre­atly in my jud­g­ment of you. I am sorry," she be­gan.

  Xan­d­ria shrug­ged, smi­ling. "Do not dwell on it. I will let you in on my own sec­ret. Ot­her wo­men do not li­ke me. Es­pe­ci­al­ly be­ca­use I am a wi­dow who has cho­sen to re­ma­in un­mar­ri­ed. They see me as a thre­at. I can un­der­s­tand how you co­uld ma­ke such a mis­ta­ke." She la­ug­hed, the so­und husky, ge­nu­ine. "But it is funny. can^ see that you do not know yo­ur hus­band very "No, I do not."

  Xan­d­ria ga­ve her a po­in­ted lo­ok. "Sla­de do­es not dab­ble in wo­men."

  A si­len­ce fol­lo­wed.

  Re­gi­na co­uld not res­t­ra­in her­self. Her aunt had sa­id the exact sa­me thing al­t­ho­ugh in dif­fe­rent words. "He do­es not?"

  "No, he do­es not." Xan­d­ria sta­red at her. "Sla­de is not only highly mo­ral, he is a pru­de."

  Re­gi­na sta­red.

  "You see, I ha­ve co­me he­re
as Sla­de's cham­pi­on."

  Re­gi­na be­gan to trem­b­le. Sla­de's eyes, in­ten­sely pas­si­ona­te, and his ha­un­ting qu­es­ti­on-Co­uld you co­me to ca­re for me aga­in?-seemed to thre­aten her re­sol­ve.

  Abruptly Re­gi­na stif­fe­ned. She wo­uld not be se­du­ced by his words. As she had po­in­ted out to him, ac­ti­ons we­re sig­ni­fi­cant, not me­re words. She had mis­ta­ken his re­la­ti­on­s­hip with Xan­d­ria Kin­g­s­ley, but he had de­ser­ted her. Had he ca­red one jot for her, even thin­king her to be Eli­za­beth, he wo­uld ha­ve ne­ver be­en ab­le to le­ave her af­ter the­ir wed­ding night.

  Still, Re­gi­na ra­ised her ga­ze to Xan­d­ria, when she sho­uld ha­ve sent the ot­her wo­man away. But a part of her was tho­ro­ughly, bre­at­h­les­sly cu­ri­o­us abo­ut what she might re­ve­al abo­ut Sla­de. Ca­uti­o­usly, Re­gi­na sa­id, "I do not think Sla­de is a pru­dish man."

  Xan­d­ria la­ug­hed. "May I call you Re­gi­na? May we spe­ak in­for­mal­ly?"

  Re­gi­na nod­ded, unab­le to stop her­self from re­cal­ling the­ir wed­ding night. The­re had be­en no pru­dery then.

  "Sla­de is li­ke a brot­her to me. If 1 we­re not so fond of him, and so con­cer­ned for him, I wo­uld not bot­her to im­po­se upon you. I can­not tell you how de­lig­h­ted I was to find that he had fi­nal­ly ta­ken a wi­fe! And then I was shoc­ked when I re­ali­zed that he had not bro­ught you back to the city with him, and wor­se, that you we­re li­ving apart."

  "He aban­do­ned me, Mrs. Kingsly," Re­gi­na sa­id simply, her co­lor high. She re­gar­ded her hands, clas­ped in her lap.

  "He hurt you."

  Re­gi­na lo­oked up. Her an­gu­ish, which just wo­uld not fa­de as easily as the an­ger had, sho­wed. "Yes."

  Xan­d­ria le­aned for­ward. "Do you lo­ve him?"

  Re­gi­na he­si­ta­ted, af­ra­id to in­s­pect her own tur­bu­lent emo­ti­ons. "I… I did. I… I d-don't know."

  Xan­d­ria to­ok her hands. "Sla­de is a de­ar, fi­ne man! The two of you are ma­de for each ot­her! Trust me!"

  "You are a stran­ger, even if a well-in­ten­ti­oned one. Ple­ase, do not ask me to trust you. Do not ask me to re­turn to Sla­de. I can­not risk anot­her bro­ken he­art, es­pe­ci­al­ly as this one is far from men­ded yet."

  "Damn that Sla­de," Xan­d­ria sa­id with a flash of an­ger. Then she sig­hed. "He is not an easy man. I know that as well as you. But co­uld you not try a re­con­ci­li­ati­on? Sla­de is worth it, my de­ar. And if you do not go back to him, so­oner or la­ter you will lo­se him to so­me­one el­se."

  Re­gi­na was star­t­led to find that the tho­ught of lo­sing him to anot­her wo­man was very pro­vo­ca­ti­ve. She did not li­ke that idea in the le­ast. "I don't know."

  "Let me tell you abo­ut yo­ur hus­band, be­ing as you do not know him that well. He is a de­di­ca­ted, lo­yal man. Ter­ribly de­di­ca­ted and ter­ribly lo­yal. He has be­en of­fe­red hu­ge bri­bes to bet­ray my fat­her by Fat­her's worst ene­mi­es, pe­op­le who wo­uld lo­ve to see him fall, but he has re­fu­sed. He has be­en of­fe­red gre­at sums of mo­ney just to le­ave Char­les, to work for the com­pe­ti­ti­on, but he has re­fu­sed. In­de­ed, he works for Char­les when he co­uld be wor­king for him­self! Sla­de is sel­f­less. He has no re­al in­te­rest in him­self."

  Re­gi­na co­uld only sta­re.

  Xan­d­ria saw her sur­p­ri­se, and her lo­ok be­ca­me de­ter­mi­ned. "You did not know? He is lo­yal to me, too. If a man even lo­oks at me the wrong way, well, Sla­de has de­alt a blow or two, I am em­bar­ras­sed to ad­mit, on my be­half. You are his wi­fe now. Even es­t­ran­ged, I can tell you that you ha­ve his com­p­le­te lo­yalty." Xan­d­ria smi­led slightly. "Which is why it's rat­her amu­sing that you tho­ught me to be his lo­ver. Sla­de wo­uld ne­ver bre­ak his mar­ri­age vows to you. Ne­ver."

  Re­gi­na was hel­p­less to stop the he­ady thrill that swept her at the tho­ught of ha­ving Sla­de's fi­de­lity-fo­re­ver. "But he left me. That is not lo­yalty."

  "I un­der­s­tand that he tho­ught you we­re James's fi­an­c­йe."

  Asha­med, Re­gi­na nod­ded. How much had Sla­de told her?

  "Sla­de is not a man who co­uld marry the wo­man his brot­her on­ce lo­ved wit­ho­ut be­ing in tur­mo­il over it. As­su­ming, of co­ur­se, that he lo­ved you him­self."

  "He do­es not lo­ve me."

  Xan­d­ria ra­ised an ele­gant brow. "That, of co­ur­se, is so­met­hing you wo­uld know, not I."

  Re­gi­na met her sta­re. It was cle­ar that Xan­d­ria tho­ught Sla­de to be in lo­ve with her! "You are wrong," she sa­id un­s­te­adily. And the­re was no mo­re fo­oling her­self now. Her he­art be­at wildly with ho­pe.

  "Sla­de has be­en ob­li­vi­o­us to all the fi­ne la­di­es in this city for all the ye­ars that I ha­ve known him. The­re has ne­ver be­en a sin­g­le ro­man­ce, not one. And," Xan­d­ria went on can­didly, "he do­es not ke­ep a mis­t­ress. He do­es not even fre­qu­ent sa­lo­ons. He re­al­ly is a most unu­su­al-and much so­ug­ht-af­ter-man. But no lady has be­en ab­le to win even his in­te­rest, much less his he­art…"

  Re­gi­na co­uld supply the fi­nal mis­sing words: un­til you. Xan­d­ria was de­ter­mi­ned to ma­ke a po­int. Re­gi­na was af­ra­id to let her.

  Xan­d­ria was bar­re­ling on en­t­hu­si­as­ti­cal­ly. "And I can­not omit the fact that he is ge­ne­ro­us. So ter­ribly ge­ne­ro­us! He is not a we­althy man, you must un­der­s­tand that, for he works for Char­les on a sa­lary. He is very fru­gal, he do­esn't spend a penny on him­self. He cla­ims his ne­eds are few. Yet what do­es he do with his sa­vings? He gi­ves most of it away!"

  "He do­es what?"

  "He is mo­dest, so he will ne­ver tell you this, but the new or­p­ha­na­ge in the Mis­si­on Dis­t­rict was bu­ilt so­lely by him. He alo­ne con­t­ri­bu­ted all of the funds ne­ces­sary for the pro­j­ect. Over the ye­ars I ha­ve no­ti­ced that he se­ems to ha­ve a par­ti­cu­lar fon­d­ness for or­p­hans."

  "A fon­d­ness for or­p­hans," Re­gi­na ec­ho­ed. And she wan­ted to cry. Such an in­c­li­na­ti­on was over­po­we­ringly elo­qu­ent. Sla­de ob­vi­o­usly iden­ti­fi­ed with the­se po­or ho­me­less or­p­hans.

  Re­gi­na tho­ught abo­ut the bu­si­nes­sman she had con­f­ron­ted in his of­fi­ce, abo­ut the gen­t­le­man the fi­ne la­di­es of San Fran­cis­co ho­ped to lu­re. She tho­ught abo­ut the man who wor­ked hard and lo­yal­ly for anot­her, not for him­self, who li­ved fru­gal­ly, who bu­ilt or­p­ha­na­ges. She did not know her hus­band. He was a stran­ger. It was as if Sla­de led a do­ub­le li­fe, and per­haps he did. Yet was it re­al­ly such a sur­p­ri­se? Hadn't she se­en his go­od­ness from the start? Her very first im­p­res­si­on of him had be­en that he was a he­ro and a gen­t­le­man, des­pi­te the fa­ca­de he'd cho­sen to hi­de be­hind. Per­haps she knew all she ne­eded to know abo­ut him af­ter all.

  "Do not gi­ve up on Sla­de," Xan­d­ria sa­id softly.

  Re­gi­na sho­ok her he­ad, un­til she was ab­le to spe­ak. "I knew, I knew all along, that he was a go­od man." She wi­ped her eyes. He was mo­re than a go­od man, but damn him-he had left her, aban­do­ned her, de­ser­ted her, ma­king her li­fe un­be­arab­le.

  I wo­uld ha­ve ne­ver left you if Yd known.

  Re­gi­na suc­ked in her bre­ath. Co­uld her mas­qu­era­ding as Eli­za­beth ha­ve re­al­ly be­en so im­por­tant to him? Did she da­re ta­ke anot­her chan­ce on the com­p­li­ca­ted man who was her hus­band? The­re wo­uld be no in-bet­we­ens if she re­ma­ined his wi­fe. The­re wo­uld be only glo­ri­o­us hap­pi­ness-or hor­ren­do­us agony. Co­uld she risk he­ar­t­b­re­ak aga­in?

  If you sit he­re in yo­ur un­c­le's ho­use you will ne­ver know him," Xan­d
­ria sa­id. "If Sla­de gi­ves you yo­ur di­vor­ce and you re­turn to En­g­land, you will ne­ver know Re­gi­na lo­oked at her, her re­sol­ve crum­b­ling. Or had the di­sin­teg­ra­ti­on al­re­ady be­gun, yes­ter­day in Sla­de's of­fi­ce, when she had first se­en him aga­in? not act in such has­te." Xan­d­ria squ­e­ezed her And co­me to sup­per to­night. Co­me, ple­ase. Get "Do hand. to know yo­ur hus­band a lit­tle bit bet­ter be­fo­re you de­ci­de what it is you will do."

  That was only ra­ti­onal. It ma­de per­fect sen­se. But the­re was not­hing ra­ti­onal abo­ut the in­ci­pi­ent ex­ci­te­ment flur­rying to li­fe wit­hin her bre­ast. Mu­tely, Re­gi­na nod­ded, ac­cep­ting Xan­d­ria's in­vi­ta­ti­on.

  Chapter 21

  It was fi­ve mi­nu­tes past se­ven. Sla­de tri­ed to lo­ok in­dif­fe­rent as he sto­le a glan­ce at the Tif­fany clock, set in he­avy eig­h­te­en-ca­rat gold, sit­ting on the whi­te mar­b­le man­t­le. He po­ured him­self a bo­ur­bon, his back to the cen­ter of the spa­ci­o­us sa­lon whe­re Xan­d­ria, Char­les, and Ed­ward sat, awa­iting the last gu­est.

  Edward and Char­les we­re dis­cus­sing one of Ma­yor Phe­lan's re­form pro­po­sals, which was aimed at re­du­cing so­me of the cor­rup­ti­on in the city's go­ver­n­ment. Xan­d­ria was unu­su­al­ly qu­i­et. Sla­de mo­ved to one of the tall do­ub­le win­dows, pul­ling asi­de the he­avy eme­rald-gre­en dra­pe. He dimly he­ard the con­ver­sa­ti­on. The af­ter­no­on fog had co­me in with the ti­de, but it was not thick, it ne­ver was, and he co­uld cle­arly see the qu­i­et stre­et be­low. It was still light out, but by eight the sun wo­uld di­sap­pe­ar and the city wo­uld be en­fol­ded in twi­light's ma­uve sha­dows.