Secrets

by Brenda Joyce

  "If he wants to pre­tend Char­lie Mann is his fat­her, why the hell wo­uld I ca­re? It don't chan­ge the fact that he be­longs at Mi­ra­mar. But I'll be dam­ned if I'll set fo­ot in Mann's pla­ce!"

  Re­gi­na wat­c­hed him stomp to the do­or. She ma­de one last ef­fort for the sa­ke of fat­her and son. "Rick, you can try to pre­tend that you don't ca­re, but we both know it’s a lie. The only one who do­esn't know is Sla­de. Don't you think it's ti­me you let him in on the sec­ret?"

  The si­len­ce in his of­fi­ce was de­adly. His bu­si­ness din­ner had long sin­ce en­ded, and, unab­le to fa­ce go­ing ho­me, he had re­tur­ned to the Fel­d­c­rest Bu­il­ding. Usu­al­ly a ca­cop­hony of so­und fil­led the flo­or, the hum of vo­ices, the clac­king of typew­ri­ters and te­let­y­pe, the rin­ging of the te­lep­ho­nes. To­night the­re was not­hing, just the he­avy be­ating of his own he­art.

  He co­uld not sha­ke the en­co­un­ter with Nic­ho­las Shel­ton from his mind. He knew that Shel­ton was right. Every god­damn word he'd sa­id was right. Re­gi­na had be­en born with blue blo­od, she had be­en ra­ised to ta­ke her pla­ce among the Bri­tish aris­toc­racy, she de­ser­ved a du­ke, not an im­po­ve­ris­hed ran­c­he­ro. She was happy now, but for how long?

  For how god­damn long?

  Sla­de pa­ced his dimly lit of­fi­ce, fi­nal­ly pa­using by the win­dow, bra­cing his hands on the sill. The stre­et be­low was gas-lit, but the­re was lit­tle traf­fic; two pros­ti­tu­tes lo­ite­red, a sin­g­le pe­des­t­ri­an hur­rying to­ward them, one lo­ne­so­me han­som rol­ling by. He sta­red at it all wit­ho­ut se­e­ing any of it. He told him­self that no mat­ter how right Shel­ton was, he was not go­ing to do the nob­le thing. He was not go­ing to end his re­la­ti­on­s­hip with his wi­fe.

  He was not.

  He had to fa­ce all of the bru­tal truth. He lo­ved her. He had for so­me ti­me, per­haps sin­ce they had first met. She was ever­y­t­hing he'd ever dre­amed a wo­man co­uld be, and so much mo­re. He did not want to go ho­me to a dark and empty ho­use, to a dark and me­anin­g­less li­fe. Ha­ving had all that she co­uld of­fer, ha­ving had the very ide­al of a mar­ri­age, he co­uld not fa­ce li­fe wit­ho­ut her.

  He wo­uld not. No mat­ter what, he wo­uld not se­ver the­ir uni­on.

  He stra­ig­h­te­ned, sig­hing in re­li­ef. He re­sol­ved not to think abo­ut the fu­tu­re, to li­ve in the pre­sent and to do so gre­edily. But as he left his of­fi­ce, he was not ap­pe­ased.

  He sus­pec­ted that he was much mo­re nob­le than he had ever tho­ught him­self to be.

  Re­gi­na pa­ced the­ir bed­ro­om in her nig­h­t­c­lot­hes and a dres­sing gown. Anot­her glan­ce at the clock sho­wed her it was a mi­nu­te past mid­night. She sig­hed. She wrung her hands. Whe­re was Sla­de?

  Lights from the stre­et be­low ca­ught her at­ten­ti­on. She ran to the win­dow, but was di­sap­po­in­ted when she saw an auto­mo­bi­le slowly dri­ving past. Sla­de wo­uld not be co­ming ho­me in a mo­tor­car. Then the do­or to the­ir bed­ro­om ope­ned be­hind her. She whir­led. Sla­de sto­od in the cor­ri­dor, re­gar­ding her.

  She bit off her cry and her qu­es­ti­on. Unab­le to smi­le, she me­rely sta­red back at him.

  He en­te­red the ro­om, shut­ting the do­or be­hind him. He to­ok off his jac­ket, sa­ying qu­i­etly, "You didn't ha­ve to wa­it up."

  Trut­h­ful­ly she an­s­we­red, "I co­uldn't sle­ep."

  He sta­red at her, re­mo­ving his tie. Wat­c­hing him, de­si­re sprang forth so in­ten­sely that Re­gi­na felt we­ak-kne­ed. When she was in his arms all of re­ality's har­s­h­ness was strip­ped away. His em­b­ra­ce was a san­c­tu­ary,

  the rest of the world va­nis­hing in­to ir­re­le­van­ce. She felt des­pe­ra­ti­on wash over her, a des­pe­ra­te ne­ed to fu­se with him, to be re­as­su­red and he­aled. But she did not mo­ve.

  He slip­ped the tie from his neck and be­gan un­but­to­ning his shirt, not ta­king his eyes from her. Re­gi­na hug­ged her­self. "How-how was yo­ur day?"

  "Rot­ten."

  She bit her lip. She knew her fat­her very well. She had wor­ri­ed all day that he had go­ne to con­f­ront Sla­de with his de­mands for a di­vor­ce and with his he­ar­t­felt thre­ats. Such a sce­na­rio hor­ri­fi­ed her. She co­uld so easily ima­gi­ne the two men she lo­ved most in the world cas­ting fu­ri­o­us words at each ot­her and then re­sor­ting to physi­cal blows. "Wh-what hap­pe­ned?"

  "Do you know that yo­ur fat­her's in town?"

  "Sla­de," she cri­ed. She rus­hed to him. When she put her arms aro­und him, hol­ding him as tightly as she co­uld, he res­pon­ded just as pas­si­ona­tely, hug­ging her hard in re­turn. "Fat­her went to see you?" She lif­ted her fa­ce from his chest.

  "I don't want to talk," he sa­id. Ab­ruptly he ca­ught her fa­ce in his hands and be­gan kis­sing her. Her body, al­re­ady we­ak, shud­de­red un­der his on­s­la­ught. Sla­de's ton­gue de­ter­mi­nedly so­ught out hers. A se­cond la­ter he had her in his arms and then they we­re on the bed.

  "I mis­sed you," Re­gi­na cri­ed as he ope­ned her dres­sing ro­be and, un­t­ying the rib­bon straps, slid her nig­h­t­gown down to her wa­ist. Hot kis­ses fell ac­ross her ba­re skin, her bre­asts and nip­ples.

  "I mis­sed you too," Sla­de re­tur­ned, his hands in­tently mo­ving up her legs be­ne­ath her thin silk nig­h­t­gown.

  The­ir eyes ca­ught and held. Re­gi­na was in­s­tantly bre­at­h­less. Sla­de de­si­red her so gre­atly she did not think it pos­sib­le for him not to lo­ve her a lit­tle. And may­be, just may­be, he lo­ved her with so­me of the sa­me kind of pas­si­on he felt for her physi­cal­ly.

  They kis­sed. Sla­de fum­b­led bet­we­en them, un­but­to­ning his pants. La­ug­hing, hyste­ri­cal­ly happy, Re­gi­na hel­ped him. She gu­ided his shaft to­ward her. A mo­ment la­ter Sla­de was mo­ving de­ep in­si­de her whi­le she grip­ped him blindly, ob­li­vi­o­us now to ever­y­t­hing ex­cept the mo­ment and the man she lo­ved.

  Her re­le­ase ca­me so qu­ickly, with such for­ce, it to­ok her by sur­p­ri­se. Sla­de ma­de a so­und both se­xu­al and tri­um­p­hant. An in­s­tant la­ter he was crying out in aban­don, in a way she had ne­ver he­ard him be­fo­re.

  They held each ot­her. Re­gi­na lay blis­sful­ly in her hus­band's arms. Then re­ality be­gan to in­t­ru­de. Pa­in­ful­ly. She did not want to be re­min­ded of the day's events, or of an­y­t­hing el­se, but it was im­pos­sib­le not to be. She sta­red at the ce­iling, no lon­ger happy.

  Sla­de sto­od and shed his sho­es and clot­hes. He twis­ted to lo­ok at her, som­ber.

  Re­gi­na swal­lo­wed, adj­us­ting her nig­h­t­gown. "Did Fat­her call on you?"

  Sla­de's jaw fle­xed. "I wo­uldn't exactly say it was a so­ci­al call."

  "What hap­pe­ned?"

  "We had a chat."

  She co­uld re­ad not­hing in his in­s­c­ru­tab­le ex­p­res­si­on. "Fat­her ca­me he­re al­so. He isn't happy with our mar­ri­age, not right now, but he will co­me aro­und even­tu­al­ly." She he­ard her­self; she did not so­und con­fi­dent. • "Will he?"

  "Yes, he will, I am su­re of it!"

  Sla­de sat down on the bed. "Why are you trem­b­ling? Why are you clo­se to te­ars? What did he say to you?"

  She did not want to tell him the truth, ho­ping that her fat­her had not ma­de the sa­me de­mands on Sla­de as he had on her, even tho­ugh it was do­ub­t­ful. "I ha­ve ne­ver se­en him so angry. I d-did not ex­pect him to be so angry."

  He sta­red at her.

  She ma­na­ged a smi­le. "It's na­tu­ral for him to be angry, and it's na­tu­ral for me to be up­set. Ple­ase don't worry abo­ut Fat­her, p-ple­ase."

  "You are such a dip­lo­mat."

 
"No, I'm not."

  "You are ob­vi­o­usly wor­ri­ed abo­ut him, ob­vi­o­usly very dis­t­res­sed."

  "I'm not wor­ri­ed. Not re­al­ly. It is stres­sful, but that's all."

  "Is that all?"

  "Yes!"

  "Don't lie to me, Re­gi­na."

  She win­ced.

  "I don't li­ke co­ming bet­we­en you and yo­ur fat­her, I don't li­ke it one damn bit."

  Her eyes wi­de­ned. "Sla­de, Fat­her and I ha­ve a go­od re­la­ti­on­s­hip. This will pass. May­be not as qu­ickly as I'd ho­ped, but it will pass."

  "So­me­how you don't se­em con­fi­dent."

  She did not res­pond. He was right. She wasn't con­fi­dent. She had ne­ver di­so­be­yed her fat­her be­fo­re, had ne­ver se­en him angry with her, and wasn't su­re how it wo­uld all turn out. But she must ne­ver let Sla­de see her do­ubts. She chan­ged the to­pic. "Yo­ur fat­her was al­so he­re to­day."

  Sla­de's eyes wi­de­ned. "What the hell did he want?"

  "Sla­de! He wants you to co­me ho­me. He wants us to co­me ho­me."

  "He as­ked you to tell me that?"

  "Ac­tu­al­ly, he did, but I told him he had bet­ter spe­ak for him­self. I tho­ught you wo­uld want to know that he was he­re, and why."

  "Don't get in­vol­ved."

  She stif­fe­ned. "Don't get in­vol­ved? I'm yo­ur wi­fe!"

  He pul­led the co­vers up over them both, his eyes dark. "Re­gi­na, you are my wi­fe, but that do­esn't gi­ve you the right to med­dle."

  "Med­dle?"

  "I don't even want to think abo­ut Rick right now," Sla­de snap­ped. "And if he has so­met­hing to say to me he can damn well say it him­self."

  Re­gi­na was si­lent, hurt. But she was al­so angry. She sat up ab­ruptly. "Yo­ur fat­her lo­ves you, Sla­de. The two of you must work things out, or li­ving at Mi­ra­mar will be a nig­h­t­ma­re."

  Sla­de was in­c­re­du­lo­us. "I just told you not to med­dle!"

  She hug­ged her­self, te­ary-eyed. "What is it you ex­pect of me, Sla­de? To warm yo­ur bed? Ob­vi­o­usly. To run yo­ur ho­me? Ob­vi­o­usly. But not to be­co­me in­vol­ved in yo­ur fa­mily-or with you?"

  He threw off the co­vers and sto­od up. "What the hell do­es that me­an?"

  "It me­ans exactly what I sa­id." She was de­fi­ant. "You want me to be a ho­use­ke­eper and a mis­t­ress, but not­hing mo­re."

  He sta­red at her. It was a long mo­ment be­fo­re he co­uld spe­ak. "Just what is it you want to be to me, Re­gi­na?"

  Now she cri­ed. "If you don't know, then I am not go­ing to tell you."

  He wat­c­hed her co­ver her fa­ce with her hands, then he sa­id, very qu­i­etly, "Just what is it you want me to be?"

  She was in­ca­pab­le of res­pon­ding. Sla­de left the ro­om. He did not re­turn un­til af­ter she had fal­len as­le­ep.

  It was the day be­fo­re the ga­la. Re­gi­na pa­ced ner­vo­usly in the sa­lon. She ho­ped she was do­ing the right thing. She was af­ra­id that the eve­ning wo­uld turn out to be a di­sas­ter. For she had in­vi­ted her pa­rents for sup­per.

  She had not se­en her fat­her sin­ce his ar­ri­val in town, which had be­en the very sa­me day that he had con­f­ron­ted her and de­man­ded that she le­ave Sla­de. But she had se­en her mot­her every day sin­ce then. So Re­gi­na knew that Nic­ho­las was still ada­mantly op­po­sed to her mar­ri­age.

  Jane had be­en the one to sug­gest a small, in­ti­ma­te gat­he­ring for the fo­ur of them. "You can­not let this im­pas­se with yo­ur fat­her con­ti­nue, de­ar," she had sa­id. Jane was al­ways sen­sib­le. "Per­haps if Nic­ho­las gets to know Sla­de he will chan­ge his opi­ni­on of him."

  Her mot­her was privy to all of Re­gi­na's fe­elings. They had al­ways be­en clo­se, now mo­re so than ever. Re­gi­na was thril­led when Jane had co­me to see her the next day and had con­fi­ded in her in­s­tantly, not just abo­ut her lo­ve for Sla­de, but her do­ubts abo­ut him, too. Jane se­emed cer­ta­in that all wo­uld work out for the best. "If he do­es not want yo­ur mo­ney, dar­ling, he must be se­ri­o­usly in lo­ve with you."

  It did not se­em pos­sib­le that Jane was right. If so, then why was the­re this in­c­re­asingly ap­pa­rent gulf bet­we­en them?

  Sla­de and Re­gi­na had spent the past few days tip­to­e­ing aro­und each ot­her and ca­re­ful­ly avo­iding the su­bj­ects thre­ate­ning the­ir mar­ri­age. Sla­de was spen­ding mo­re ti­me at the of­fi­ce, le­aving ear­li­er and co­ming ho­me la­ter, which dec­re­ased the wa­king mo­ments they spent to­get­her. Sin­ce they still ma­de lo­ve each night, the ti­me ava­ilab­le for con­ver­sa­ti­on had di­mi­nis­hed con­si­de­rably. The­re was less chan­ce to ven­tu­re in­to dan­ge­ro­us ter­ri­tory. Re­gi­na co­uld not bla­me Sla­de. She al­so did not want to dis­cuss an­y­t­hing right now which wo­uld up­set the­ir mar­ri­age any fur­t­her.

  Sla­de knew she had in­vi­ted her pa­rents for sup­per. She had fo­und a mo­ment to tell him last night. He had ac­cep­ted it rat­her sto­ical­ly. He had pro­mi­sed to be on his best be­ha­vi­or.

  "That's not ne­ces­sary, Sla­de," Re­gi­na had told him.

  He lif­ted a brow. "You ha­ve my pro­mi­se, Re­gi­na. Co­me what may."

  His words left her with a bad fe­eling, one which ha­un­ted her all that next day.

  Nic­ho­las and Jane ar­ri­ved promptly, as Re­gi­na had ex­pec­ted. She was very ner­vo­us. She ho­ve­red be­hind Brinks as he to­ok her mot­her's co­at, re­gar­ding her fat­her an­xi­o­usly. He was wat­c­hing her just as in­tently.

  "Thank you for co­ming, Fat­her."

  "Why wo­uld I re­fu­se an in­vi­ta­ti­on from my own da­ug­h­ter?"

  "You're not still angry?"

  "I am angry. But not as much as I am hurt." His eyes we­re dark. "I still can­not be­li­eve you or­de­red me from yo­ur ho­me."

  "I can ba­rely be­li­eve it myself," she whis­pe­red. "Ple­ase, let ‘s try to ha­ve a ple­asant eve­ning."

  "I did not co­me he­re to wa­ge war."

  Re­gi­na sin­ce­rely ho­ped not. "Let’s sit in the sa­lon whi­le we wa­it for Sla­de."

  They fol­lo­wed her in­to the sa­lon. "He's not he­re?" Jane as­ked.

  "E­ar­li­er to­day he sent me a mes­sa­ge that he might be de­ta­ined a bit, but that he wo­uld try to be on ti­me."

  "Do­es he know that we are yo­ur gu­ests?" Nic­ho­las as­ked dryly.

  "Yes, Fat­her. I wo­uld not do so­met­hing be­hind my hus­band's back that had the po­ten­ti­al of up­set­ting him."

  Nic­ho­las sig­hed. "Re­gi­na, when will you co­me to yo­ur sen­ses? Every day that you stay with him will only ma­ke it mo­re dif­fi­cult for you to fi­nal­ly le­ave."

  Her spi­rits cras­hed. "Are we go­ing to ar­gue over this aga­in? To­night? You met Sla­de. Co­uldn't you see what a fi­ne, res­pon­sib­le man he is?"

  "He was not exactly what I ex­pec­ted," Nic­ho­las ad­mit­ted. "But he can­not gi­ve you the kind of li­fe I know you ne­ed."

  "How po­orly you think of me!" Re­gi­na cri­ed.

  "I know my own da­ug­h­ter," Nic­ho­las fla­red. "I know you will not be happy li­ving at that Mi­ra­mar! We­re you or we­re you not un­hap­py, bo­red, and res­t­less every ti­me we re­si­ded in the co­untry at Drag­mo­re?"

  Re­gi­na bit her lip. "But that was dif­fe­rent! That was be­fo­re I fell in lo­ve with a man who­se en­ti­re li­fe is wrap­ped up in his ho­me!"

  Jane in­ter­ve­ned. "Nic­ho­las, you do know yo­ur da­ug­h­ter, of co­ur­se you do. But da­ug­h­ters grow up and be­co­me wo­men. Re­gi­na has grown up. It's so very ob­vi­o­us. She has led a per­fectly char­med exis­ten­ce be­ca­use we we­re de­ter­mi­ned that she ha­ve ever­y­t­hing she co­uld pos
­sibly want. Now she has had to fa­ce ad­ver­sity and ma­ke dif­fi­cult cho­ices. You sho­uld be pro­ud of her, dar­ling. Yo­ur da­ug­h­ter is sel­f­les­sly in lo­ve with Sla­de De­lan­za, and wil­ling to sup­port him in wha­te­ver he has to do."

  Nic­ho­las grun­ted. "I am pro­ud of you, Re­gi­na, you know that."

  "No, Fat­her, I don't know that. It se­ems to me that you are angry with me and gri­evo­usly di­sap­po­in­ted."

  "I am angry that you ha­ve cho­sen a hus­band wit­ho­ut my con­sent. I am di­sap­po­in­ted that you wo­uld think so lightly of my opi­ni­on. I do not want you to ma­ke the big­gest mis­ta­ke of yo­ur li­fe."

  "I'm not. I as­su­re you."

  "I am not at all con­vin­ced, as yo­ur mot­her is, that you re­al­ly lo­ve this man, ha­ving se­en you in­fa­tu­ated a do­zen ti­mes sin­ce you ca­me out of short skirts. I am cer­ta­inly not con­vin­ced that you lo­ve this man eno­ugh to gi­ve up all you are ac­cus­to­med to."

  Re­gi­na he­si­ta­ted. This was her chan­ce. She se­ized it. "Fat­her, I don't ha­ve to gi­ve up all that I am ac­cus­to­med to. Not if you wo­uld gi­ve me my in­he­ri­tan­ce."

  Nic­ho­las was si­lent.

  "Fat­her, we ne­ed that mo­ney, we truly do!"

  "That is ob­vi­o­us."

  "Do I ha­ve to beg?" Re­gi­na cri­ed. "What do I ha­ve to do to con­vin­ce you to gi­ve us my in­he­ri­tan­ce? Ple­ase, Fat­her, ple­ase!"

  Nic­ho­las re­gar­ded her in­tently. A so­und from the do­or­way ma­de them all turn. Re­gi­na was sur­p­ri­sed to see Sla­de stan­ding the­re, not ha­ving he­ard him ap­pro­ach. She rus­hed to him. Se­e­ing that he was ri­gid, she grew ap­pre­hen­si­ve. How much of her ar­gu­ment with her fat­her had he over­he­ard?