Secrets

by Brenda Joyce

  A man en­te­red the ro­om, star­t­ling him. Tall, thin, I and grim, he car­ri­ed a sil­ver tray, and on it was one J glass, which lo­oked as if it con­ta­ined his fa­vo­ri­te spi­rits, bo­ur­bon. "Who the hell are you?" Sla­de as­ked mildly.

  "Brinks, sir." The man had a dis­tinct Bri­tish ac­cent, as per­fectly im­pas­si­ve ex­p­res­si­on, and an equ­al­ly im­pas­si­ve in­to­na­ti­on.

  Re­gi­na was on her fe­et, wrin­ging her hands. "Sla­de, this is Brinks." She he­si­ta­ted. "Yo­ur but­ler."

  "I see." He to­ok the glass. "Thank you, Brinks."

  Brinks sa­id, "Will the­re be an­y­t­hing el­se, sir?"

  Sla­de lo­oked at Re­gi­na. "Ask my wi­fe."

  Brinks sa­id, "Ma­dam?"

  "No, thank you. Oh-" She swal­lo­wed. "Sla­de, will you be re­ady to eat in for­ty-fi­ve mi­nu­tes?"

  He ga­zed at her. "I can be re­ady in for­ty-fi­ve mi­nu­tes."

  "Brinks, tell Mon­si­e­ur Ber­t­rand that Mr. De­lan­za is ho­me and we shall di­ne at ni­ne."

  "Very go­od, ma­dam." Brinks left.

  Sla­de still ga­zed at his wi­fe.

  "I ho­pe you are not too up­set," she sa­id bre­at­h­les­sly.

  "I've be­en up­set all day."

  "You ha­ve be­en?"

  He set his glass down. "I sent you a no­te but you didn't send a reply."

  Her eyes wi­de­ned. "I didn't re­ali­ze you ex­pec­ted one."

  "I did."

  "I'm sorry."

  "What's go­ing on he­re, Re­gi­na?"

  "I… I ca­me over to see if you ne­eded an­y­t­hing." She drew her­self up de­fen­si­vely. "After all, I am yo­ur wi­fe."

  '’You're ma­king that cle­arer by the mi­nu­te," he sa­id.

  She lo­oked wor­ri­ed. "This pla­ce was such a… such a bac­he­lor's su­ite."

  He had to smi­le. "I ima­gi­ne you're put­ting it mildly."

  "Well, yes," she con­fes­sed. "I co­uld not turn my back on yo­ur ho­me! So I hi­red a ma­id, a but­ler, and the chef. I sto­le Mon­si­e­ur Ber­t­rand from the Croc­kers." She ga­ve him a gu­ilty but so-swe­et smi­le. "But I be­li­eve he will be worth it."

  "If the smells co­ming out of that kit­c­hen are any in­di­ca­ti­on, I wo­uld say so."

  She lo­oked at him ho­pe­ful­ly. "Wo­uld you li­ke to go up­s­ta­irs and chan­ge in­to so­met­hing mo­re com­for­tab­le?"

  He re­ali­zed that she hadn't an­s­we­red his qu­es­ti­on. What was go­ing on? His gut was tight, even ac­hing. Had she chan­ged her mind abo­ut the di­vor­ce? It se­emed so. It se­emed as if she had co­me to his ho­me and was the­re to stay. It ap­pe­ared that she had ta­ken the fi­nal step, ma­de the fi­nal de­ci­si­on, ab­sol­ving him of the res­pon­si­bi­lity to do so, en­su­ring the­ir re­con­ci­li­ati­on. He was thril­led, he was dis­ma­yed. It was all hap­pe­ning so fast.

  She was re­gar­ding him an­xi­o­usly. The last thing he wan­ted to do was to di­sap­po­int her, or push her away. If she wan­ted him to go up­s­ta­irs-and he ima­gi­ned the­re we­re a few chan­ges awa­iting him the­re, too-he wo­uld. Im­pul­si­vely he to­ok her chin and kis­sed her softly on the lips. Then he whe­eled ab­ruptly and bo­un­ded up the sta­irs.

  In his bed­ro­om he pa­used on the thres­hold, won­de­ring abo­ut her, abo­ut them. His uti­li­ta­ri­an bed was go­ne. In its pla­ce was a king-si­zed brass bed, do­ne up lu­xu­ri­o­usly in bur­gundy. How in hell co­uld she ha­ve known that bur­gundy was one of his fa­vo­ri­te co­lors?

  He mo­ved clo­ser. As he tes­ted it with his hand, ima­gi­ning her the­re, in it, he saw the silk vel­vet-la­pel­led smo­king jac­ket she had la­id out for him. He ne­ver wo­re the gar­ment, which had be­en a gift from Xan­d­ria a long ti­me ago. He saw that she had put a si­mi­larly unu­sed air of slip­pers on the flo­or be­si­de it. His he­art, which ad be­en be­ating un­s­te­adily ever sin­ce he had spot­ted her the­re in the par­lor, se­emed to flip hard.

  Slowly re­mo­ving his tie, shirt, and jac­ket, he in­s­pec­ted the ro­om. She had put a la­ce cloth on the dre­ary wo­od tab­le by the win­dow and a va­se of fresh-cut li­li­es in its cen­ter. The­ir scent per­me­ated the ro­om. The de­can­ter on the bu­re­au, which had be­en al­most empty, was re­fil­led. The glas­ses on the tray we­re cle­an; ta­king a clo­ser glan­ce, he re­ali­zed that they we­re al­so new. In fact, he didn't re­cog­ni­ze the sil­ver tray, eit­her.

  So­berly he wal­ked in­to the bat­h­ro­om. He fo­und all of his to­ilet­ri­es ne­atly la­id out on anot­her lar­ge, un­fa­mi­li­ar sil­ver tray. She had pla­ced a pot­ted fern in the cor­ner, and snowy-whi­te to­wels hung from a brass ring which he had ne­ver se­en be­fo­re. She had al­so chan­ged the sin­g­le set of cur­ta­ins, which had be­en so­mew­hat mil­de­wed. The new cur­ta­ins we­re stri­ped in bur­gundy and whi­te.

  She had ma­de a lot of chan­ges in his ho­me, chan­ges that we­re for the bet­ter. But he was frow­ning. How had she pa­id for all of the­se chan­ges? He co­uldn't and h wo­uldn't un­do them, not for a few dol­lars, but he ha just ma­de the de­ci­si­on not to ta­ke her in­he­ri­tan­ce an he­re she was spen­ding it rec­k­les­sly on him. Yes, h was ple­ased by her tho­ug­h­t­ful­ness, mo­re than ple­ased, thril­led-but dam­mit, he co­uld just see whe­re this was go­ing to le­ad them. In­to a tun­nel wit­ho­ut light.

  "Sla­de?"

  Slip­ping on the smo­king jac­ket, he jer­ked at the so­und of her vo­ice. Her he­si­tant to­nes bro­ught him to the bed ro­om do­or­way. "Are you angry?" she as­ked.

  "No."

  She lo­oked re­li­eved.

  He put his arms aro­und her and held her hard. Al­re­ady his body pul­sed ur­gently. "This is li­ke a dre­am, Re­gi­na," he sa­id qu­i­etly.

  She lo­oked up at him, blin­king back te­ars. "You li­ke it?"

  "I li­ke it," he sa­id ho­ar­sely, wan­ting to say so much mo­re yet unab­le to. He to­ok her mo­uth wit­ho­ut war­ning, smot­he­ring her gasp of sur­p­ri­se.

  Then she la­ug­hed hap­pily, bur­ro­wing clo­ser. "And… the bed?"

  "Let's test it," he whis­pe­red, sha­king. "Let's test it now."

  "We can't!" She was ag­hast. "Mon­si­e­ur Ber­t­rand will qu­it be­fo­re he has even star­ted!"

  "Re­gi­na, ple­ase," Sla­de sa­id, lif­ting her in his arms. "Let me ma­ke lo­ve to you now."

  She was si­lent, clin­ging to him.

  "I ne­ed you," he whis­pe­red. La­ying her down on the bed, he ca­ught her fa­ce in his hands. "How I ne­ed you!"

  "I ne­ed you too, Sla­de," she whis­pe­red, te­ars in her eyes. She star­ted to spe­ak and then bit her lip.

  "No," he cri­ed, sli­ding his hands over her sho­ul­ders. "Say it! Don't hold back. Tell me. Tell me you lo­ve me- even if it's only for now."

  "Sla­de…"

  He ra­ined kis­ses on her thro­at, pan­ting, his hands mo­ving down her body. "Re­gi­na?"

  "I do," she mo­aned. "God, I do. I lo­ve you, Sla­de."

  Chapter 24

  The next few days pas­sed qu­ickly in a ha­ze of hap­pi­ness. Re­gi­na had not exactly in­ten­ded to mo­ve in with Sla­de by or­ga­ni­zing his ho­me and staff, yet that was pre­ci­sely what hap­pe­ned. Af­ter a fa­bu­lo­us sup­per, pro­ving that Mon­si­e­ur Ber­t­rand was worth every penny, she aga­in fo­und her­self in Sla­de's arms and in his bed. When she fell as­le­ep af­ter se­ve­ral im­pas­si­oned ho­urs, he did not awa­ken her to send her ho­me. She was sur­p­ri­sed to wa­ke up that next mor­ning with him-but mo­re than a lit­tle ple­ased.

  She ex­pec­ted Sla­de to re­mark upon the­ir re­con­ci­li­ati­on. He did not. Per­haps, be­ca­use they we­re mar­ri­ed, the­re was no po­int in brin­ging up the un­hap­py past. He was the
one who had re­fu­sed her re­qu­est for a di­vor­ce, af­ter all. Per­haps he was af­ra­id of whe­re too blunt a dis­cus­si­on might le­ad. Re­gi­na was. She was on ten­ter­ho­oks. But she did know one thing. She did not want to re­turn to her un­c­le's-she be­lon­ged in Sla­de's ho­me, she be­lon­ged at Sla­de's si­de. She did not even want to le­ave his ho­me in or­der to ret­ri­eve her be­lon­gings. The si­tu­ati­on was too de­li­ca­te. Sla­de sa­ved her from ha­ving to do so. Over bre­ak­fast-in bed-he ca­su­al­ly sug­ges­ted he send a ser­vant to fetch her things. En­t­hu­si­as­ti­cal­ly Re­gi­na ag­re­ed. It se­emed as if they had re­ac­hed an un­der­s­tan­ding to carry on with the­ir mar­ri­age af­ter all. Yet so­me­how the un­s­po­ken pact se­emed ten­ta­ti­ve and te­nu­o­us.

  Du­ring the next few days Sla­de did not tre­at her as a wi­fe, but as a bri­de. He ga­ve him­self a ho­li­day from his work in or­der to squ­ire her abo­ut the city. It was a ho­ney­mo­on which Re­gi­na wo­uld ne­ver for­get. He to­ok her to Lit­tle Italy and in­t­ro­du­ced her to pas­ta, which she now cra­ved. On the Em­bar­ca­de­ro they di­ned at Ma­ye's Oy­s­ter Ho­use on fresh se­afo­od and raw oy­s­ters, was­hed down with iced be­er. The Cas­t­le-Ob­ser­va­tory on Te­leg­raph Hill was not to be mis­sed. They at­ten­ded a show at Lucky Bal­d­win's Aca­demy of Mu­sic, which they so enj­oyed they re­tur­ned for a se­cond per­for­man­ce.

  They to­ok the Ma­rin ferry to Sa­usa­li­to and cycled on Si­ame­se-twin bic­y­c­les along the sho­re. They went hor­se­back ri­ding in Gol­den Ga­te Park and bo­ating on Stow La­ke. One af­ter­no­on they even went to the Sut­ro baths. Re­gi­na had ne­ver se­en an­y­t­hing li­ke it. The­re we­re six kinds of bat­hing-salt, fresh, warm, cold, de­ep, and shal­low-and the mu­se­um the­re was fil­led with char­ming cu­ri­os and con­tests for pe­op­le of all ages. Sla­de tal­ked her in­to trying the sli­de, which was one of the most thril­ling ex­pe­ri­en­ces of her li­fe.

  And du­ring it all was the­ir pas­si­on. It had not fa­ded one whit. Sla­de was a mer­ci­less man. He did not li­ke be­ing con­fi­ned to the­ir bed­ro­om and he ad­mit­ted it can­didly. Re­gi­na tri­ed not to re­mem­ber ma­king lo­ve in the­ir car­ri­age, not on­ce but on two se­pa­ra­te oc­ca­si­ons, and she tri­ed not to re­mem­ber his hot kis­ses be­hind the sli­de at the Sut­ro baths. He had ma­de lo­ve to her on Oce­an Be­ach, too, in a hur­ri­ed but tho­ro­ughly sa­tis­fac­tory man­ner, and they had just es­ca­ped dis­co­very. And he had ta­ken her in the ru­ins of an old mis­si­on just so­uth of the city.

  Thin­king abo­ut him ma­de her bre­at­h­less. Thin­king abo­ut him ma­de her wish that he was ho­me to­day and not at the of­fi­ce. She blus­hed scar­let with anot­her vi­vid re­col­lec­ti­on. Yes­ter­day Sla­de had in­sis­ted that they stop at his of­fi­ce to pick up a con­t­ract, one he wan­ted to re­ad that eve­ning. Yet on­ce in his of­fi­ce he had not even bot­he­red to lo­ok for the pa­pers. In­s­te­ad, his smi­le pro­mi­sing, he had pus­hed her on top of his desk, sen­ding fi­les and fol­ders flying to the flo­or. He had lif­ted her skirts, kis­sing away her pro­tests, and ma­de lo­ve to her on top of his pa­per­work. Re­gi­na fer­vently ho­ped that no one had any idea just what had be­en go­ing on in his of­fi­ce that day. She sus­pec­ted that Sla­de's as­sa­ult had be­en well-plan­ned; that he had ne­ver in­ten­ded to ret­ri­eve a con­t­ract at all.

  He was im­pos­sib­le. How she lo­ved him. If only she co­uld be su­re that he lo­ved her, too.

  And she was not su­re. His pas­si­on for her was bo­un­d­less, so Re­gi­na co­uld not help thin­king that he must be fond of her as well. Yet men had mis­t­res­ses all the ti­me, mis­t­res­ses they dis­mis­sed in the blink of an eye. Re­gi­na co­uld not un­der­s­tand it, but it was evi­den­ce that a man did not ne­ed lo­ve to fe­el pas­si­on. She wis­hed that Sla­de wo­uld tell her, just on­ce, of the fe­elings he had for her. But he did not.

  And to com­po­und her worry was the fact that, des­pi­te the ex­ces­si­ve physi­cal in­ti­macy they sha­red, the­re was lit­tle emo­ti­onal in­ti­macy out­si­de of the bed­ro­om. Sla­de was not gi­ving all of him­self to her. She was cer­ta­in that he kept so­me sort of gu­ard up aro­und her, that he was ca­re­ful to res­t­ra­in his fe­elings, that he did not want to be­co­me too in­vol­ved with her, his own wi­fe. Sla­de had got­ten a dec­la­ra­ti­on of lo­ve from her, but Re­gi­na was be­gin­ning to fe­ar that she wo­uld ne­ver get such a dec­la­ra­ti­on from him.

  She told her­self that it was unim­por­tant and that she co­uld li­ve wit­ho­ut it, as long as she had him. But she co­uld not stop her­self from ye­ar­ning for mo­re.

  When Sla­de re­tur­ned that night af­ter his first day at work sin­ce they had re­con­ci­led so subtly, Re­gi­na gre­eted him at the do­or her­self. She was all smi­les. Se­e­ing her, he smi­led just as wi­dely.

  She to­ok his bri­ef­ca­se and his arm, pul­ling him in­to the fo­yer. "Hel­lo! How was yo­ur day?" She le­aned clo­se, drop­ping the bri­ef­ca­se.

  Sla­de to­ok her sho­ul­ders in his hands. "Is this the gre­eting I'm go­ing to get every day when I co­me ho­me?"

  "Yes," she whis­pe­red, her palms sli­ding along his strong neck.

  "I gu­ess the­re's so­met­hing to be sa­id for mar­ri­age," he joked, kis­sing her. Re­gi­na clung to him. It felt as if days had pas­sed, not ho­urs, sin­ce she had last se­en him.

  When the long, scan­da­lo­us kiss had en­ded-af­ter all, ser­vants we­re abo­ut-Re­gi­na pul­led Sla­de in­to the sa­lon. "I ha­ve so­met­hing to show you!" “I’ll bet," he sa­id wic­kedly.

  She ga­ve him a lo­ok, then po­in­ted at the co­uch.

  He went still, his smi­le fa­ding. He eyed the co­uch, which was co­ve­red with dif­fe­rent swat­c­hes of fab­ric. "What's that?"

  "Sam­p­les," she sa­id hap­pily. "I'll do yo­ur su­ite first. In our new ho­me on Fran­k­lin Stre­et. What do you think?" She rus­hed to the co­uch and held up a swatch of moss-gre­en vel­vet. "For a soft, com­for­tab­le re­ading cha­ir? And this-for yo­ur so­fa? And of co­ur­se, I know how you li­ke bur­gundy, so I tho­ught may­be you'd li­ke this for the bed." She wa­ved a pa­is­ley print and re­gar­ded him eagerly.

  Sla­de sa­id not­hing.

  Re­gi­na put down the fab­rics, her own smi­le va­nis­hing. "You ha­te it? All of it?"

  "No, I don't ha­te it."

  "I don't un­der­s­tand."

  His jaw fle­xed. "We're not go­ing to mo­ve in­to the He­nes­sy pla­ce."

  She was stun­ned. "But why not?"

  He sa­id tightly, "Be­ca­use I can't af­ford it."

  Re­gi­na sta­red. Fi­nal­ly she sho­ok the cob­webs free from her bra­in. "Of co­ur­se you can! We ha­ve my in­he­ri­tan­ce, re­mem­ber? Fat­her will be he­re any day now, and he'll tran­s­fer the funds to yo­ur bank and-"

  "No."

  She blin­ked. "Excu­se me?"

  "I sa­id no."

  "I don't un­der­s­tand, Sla­de." Not li­king his hard, clo­sed ex­p­res­si­on, she sat down on se­ve­ral of the sam­p­les. She be­gan to trem­b­le.

  "I'm not go­ing to ta­ke yo­ur in­he­ri­tan­ce."

  "What?"

  He pa­ced ac­ross the ro­om to po­ur him­self a drink. "I don't want to ta­ke yo­ur mo­ney."

  It sank in. A thrill swept thro­ugh her. He did not want her mo­ney, not now, when he had mar­ri­ed her for her mo­ney in the first pla­ce. "Why not?" she whis­pe­red.

  He glan­ced at her. "I ha­ve pri­de. I don't want to use my wi­fe or her mo­ney."

  "Oh, Sla­de." She sto­od, wrin­ging her hands. It co­uldn't be all pri­de. He ca­red for her.

  Re­gar­ding her darkly over his glass, he sip­ped his bo­ur­bon.

&
nbsp; In the next in­s­tant, the enor­mity of what he was do­ing-the ra­mi­fi­ca­ti­ons-st­ruck her hard. "But-Mi­ra-mar? You ne­ed the mo­ney to sa­ve Mi­ra­mar!"

  "I've bor­ro­wed so­me funds from Char­les."

  Re­gi­na sat back down, trying to think. "So Mi­ra­mar is sa­fe?"

  "It won't be easy." He sta­red at her. His to­ne se­emed to hold a war­ning. "The next fi­ve ye­ars will be tight. We'll ha­ve to li­ve simply, fru­gal­ly. But by then I ho­pe to start sho­wing a de­cent pro­fit."

  "I see." Re­gi­na ga­zed at him. "Isn't it silly to li­ve li­ke that when we ha­ve all the mo­ney we co­uld ever ne­ed-"

  "No. I sa­id I'm not ta­king yo­ur mo­ney and I me­an it." Her tem­per fla­red. "This is ri­di­cu­lo­us! And what abo­ut the He­nes­sy pla­ce?"

  "We'll clo­se it up. May­be I'll sell it. I'm thin­king abo­ut it. If I don't, in fi­ve or ten ye­ars we'll be ab­le to open it and use it for va­ca­ti­ons and we­ekends. Un­til then, if you want, I can ke­ep this ho­use for you to use when you co­me to the city."

  "Sla­de." She sto­od. "This is ri­di­cu­lo­us. We ha­ve a fa­bu­lo­us ho­me and I'm not go­ing to al­low you to sell it!"

  He fa­ced her. "You're not go­ing to al­low me to sell it?"

  She knew she sho­uld back down, but she wo­uld not. "No."

  He sta­red, not res­pon­ding, an­ger har­de­ning his ex­p­res­si­on.

  She was trem­b­ling, she did not fe­el bra­ve, but she for­ged on. "And to clo­se it up for ten ye­ars! Ple­ase re­con­si­der. You knew I was an he­iress when you mar­ri­ed me-you mar­ri­ed me be­ca­use of it! Why sho­uld we strug­gle and li­ve li­ke pa­upers if we don't ha­ve to? It's ri­di­cu­lo­us!"