Every Secret Thing

by Susanna Kearsley

  She didn’t want to think of Deacon leaving, and that troubled her, so much so that she didn’t meet his eyes when, as she passed the open doorway of the living room, he greeted her with, ‘You’re back early’.

  ‘Yes, well…’ She held up the dress bag. ‘I found what I wanted.’ She looked at Jim, instead. ‘Sorry to interrupt.’

  ‘Oh, no. I was just going,’ said Jim, with a smile. He didn’t say anything further, but after they had shut the door behind him Deacon glanced at Georgie, and she knew that he was wondering if she had overheard their conversation, and if so, how much she’d heard, and since there was no gentlemanly way for him to ask, she spared him the necessity by speaking first.

  ‘You were talking,’ she said honestly, ‘when I came in. I heard the last few sentences.’

  ‘I see.’

  Wanting a cup of tea after her shopping, she walked into the kitchen, laid the dress across a chair, and moved to fill the kettle, while he watched her from the doorway. ‘Jim mentioned the Clipper,’ she said. She’d seen the Pan Am Clipper at its moorings, once – the stately seaplane that was now the only aircraft offering commercial flights across the treacherous Atlantic. ‘I take it that means you’ll be flying, wherever you’re going?’

  He couldn’t tell her, anyway. She knew he couldn’t tell her; that he wouldn’t be allowed to give her details of his mission, but she had to ask the question.

  He was silent for a moment, then he asked her, ‘Would that bother you?’

  She turned. It wasn’t what he’d said so much as how he’d said it, almost as if he had known how she felt about airplanes and flying…as if he had known about Ken…

  He was still in the doorway, unmoving. Their eyes locked. And then she knew for certain that he did know. He’d been told. She looked away.

  She said, as lightly as she could, ‘I see they’ve told you all about my private life.’

  ‘I asked.’ And then, to her questioning glance, he explained, ‘You mentioned his name on the train. You said he was your brothers’ friend. I had a sense he might be rather more than that, so I asked. I wanted to be sure he wouldn’t be a complication.’

  ‘He won’t.’ Her tone was curt. ‘His plane went down. That doesn’t mean he’s dead. And even if he is, I’m not the sort of girl who has hysterics.’

  The kettle, half forgotten on the stove, came shrieking to a boil as if to punctuate her sentence.

  Deacon, hands in pockets, said, ‘I’m really very sorry.’

  Then he gave a small, tight smile that didn’t know what else to say, and turned to leave.

  She instantly regretted how she’d spoken – there hadn’t been any real need to be rude. In his place, she admitted, she’d likely have done the same thing. He had more of a stake in this whole masquerade; more to lose, if she made a false step.

  ‘Wait…’ She willed him to stop, and he did. ‘Don’t go yet. Stay and have some tea.’

  He considered a moment, then stayed. ‘For the record,’ he said, as he fetched her the tea from the cupboard, ‘I never did think you hysterical.’

  ‘Forget it,’ Georgie said. ‘You had a right to ask. I should have told you myself, probably, only I didn’t think it was relevant.’ She settled the lid on the teapot. ‘Anyway, they knew that Ken had been shot down before they put me on that train to Canada, so if they thought that it would be a problem…’

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Deacon. ‘I was told that they considered it an asset.’

  ‘Really? Why is that?’

  ‘Because your heart and mind would be engaged elsewhere,’ he told her, and the humour flashed so briefly through his blue eyes that she thought she had imagined it. ‘It worried them, your living here, with me; our going out around the town as man and wife. They didn’t want there to be any…well, emotional entanglements. As if that were a danger.’ His smile so clearly mocked himself that Georgie didn’t take offence, but found a smile herself, to share the joke.

  But she was glad he hadn’t pressed her for an answer as to whether it would bother her, to know that he was flying…for the truth had been a revelation, even to herself.

  Which might have been why, later on, in the beaded black dress, she felt strange as she faced her reflection. She felt, for an instant, as though she were being unfaithful to Ken. She knew that was crazy, and said so out loud to the face in the mirror. ‘It’s business. Just business.’

  The strange feeling passed. It was only herself again, there in the mirror. She leant in, adjusting an earring, and liking the way all the beads of the epaulets danced on the dress at her shoulders. She had taken more care with her hair than she usually did, and her make-up, knowing the party tonight would be larger than any event they had been to, and that her appearance would be under scrutiny by those who hadn’t yet met her. She wanted to look like a woman who might hold appeal for a man who loved art.

  Deacon was waiting for her in the front hall, with her coat. He turned at the sound of her footsteps, and for a long time he said nothing, only looked at her in silence, in an angle of the hallway where there wasn’t light enough for her to see his eyes and know what he was thinking.

  The silence made her nervous, so she asked him, ‘Will I do?’

  He answered quietly. ‘You’re lovely.’

  After which there wasn’t much that she could do but tell herself again that it was business, only business, as he took his hat down from the peg and offered her his arm.

  It wasn’t snowing, so they walked. The cocktail party was a short few blocks away, at the twin-towered San Remo apartments. Georgie had seen them before, from the park, but she’d never been inside, and the sheer luxury left her dazzled.

  ‘Your friend must have money,’ she said, without thinking, and Deacon smiled.

  ‘She married it. I’d say she married well, except I don’t believe she did. Her husband drinks.’ They took the elevator up, while he explained, ‘She sometimes needs to get away. That’s why she had the key to my apartment,’ Deacon said, ‘while I was gone.’

  ‘Oh.’ So the mystery woman, Georgie thought, was someone else’s wife. From what she knew of Deacon, that made it unlikely that the two of them were anything but friends. She reaffirmed this when she saw them greet each other, with a casual and easy kiss on the cheek that held as much emotion as a kiss she might have given her own brother.

  Relieved, although she wouldn’t have admitted why, Georgie took stock of her hostess. The woman was beautiful, dark-haired and dark-eyed, and so slender that, in her silver-toned metallic dress, she looked as insubstantial as a wraith. The hand she extended to Georgie was long-fingered, graceful, and weighted with expensive-looking rings.

  ‘My wife, Amelia,’ Deacon introduced her, and then, ‘Darling, this is Sylvia.’

  ‘A pleasure to meet you,’ said Georgie, and shook the hand gently, not wanting to crush it.

  ‘The pleasure’s all mine. I’m so happy you married this dear man. He needs taking care of.’ The woman named Sylvia smiled, and then held out her free hand to Deacon. ‘Please, both of you, come join the party.’

  Georgie had never seen so many people in one room. She found it all completely overwhelming, and was grateful for the anchoring effect of Deacon’s presence at her elbow. ‘What will you drink?’ he asked.

  ‘Can I just have a Coke with ice?’

  ‘Of course. Wait here, I’ll get it.’

  As she watched him navigate the crush of people on his way toward the bar, she felt again that strange sensation that she’d felt in the apartment, a mingling of guilt and awareness. She watched Ken this way, in a crowd – recognising the set of his shoulders, the tilt of his head, so she picked him out easily even when all she could see was his back.

  It was natural, really, with all of the time she’d been spending with Deacon, that she’d be familiar with how the man walked, but—

  ‘So you’re Mrs Deacon.’ The voice interrupted her thoughts like the bang of a gavel. She wheeled, and saw no one
, until she corrected her angle of vision to take in the man in the wheelchair, beside her. His wheels had slid without a sound across the thick white carpet. Georgie hadn’t heard him coming.

  ‘Yes, I am,’ she said.

  ‘You’re not a Brit.’

  She didn’t like his tone, but she said anyway, ‘I’m not, no. I’m Canadian.’

  ‘Thank God for that. I can’t stand Brits. Think they’re better than we are.’ He lifted his glass which, from what her nose told her, held nothing but whiskey, and twisted his mouth with contempt. He was not an attractive man – anvil-jawed and heavy, with a barrel of a chest, and arms that seemed a shade too powerful for someone so confined. ‘Bunch of damned cowards,’ he said, loudly enough to attract the attention of several people standing nearby. One of them, a kind-faced young man, glanced briefly at Georgie’s face and, taking pity on her, joined the conversation.

  ‘Who’s that, Bill?’ he asked.

  ‘Brits. They can’t even fight their own war, they need us to come finish it for them.’

  Georgie wasn’t a redhead for nothing. Indignant, she felt her jaw set as she told him, ‘I think they’ve been doing all right.’

  The man in the wheelchair angled a hard look up at her, as though he hadn’t expected the challenge. ‘Cowards,’ he said, more loudly still. ‘Like that husband of yours. I’d be over there fighting myself, if it wasn’t for this…’ One great hand slammed the arm of his wheelchair. ‘What’s his excuse?’

  Georgie’s face flushed with anger on Deacon’s behalf, and she would have said something in his defence if her hostess had not, at that moment, appeared, with a faintly embarrassed look marring her beautiful face. The woman, Sylvia, smiled at Georgie, and her large eyes begged forgiveness. ‘I see you’ve met my husband.’ One diamond-ringed hand rested on the man’s shoulder, not so much a gesture of affection as an attempt at restraint. ‘I’m afraid he’s a man of opinions.’

  ‘Yes.’ Georgie kept her voice calm for her hostess’s sake. ‘I did notice.’

  The young man who had joined the conversation earlier tried once again to intervene to keep the peace by extending his hand in a greeting to Georgie. ‘So you’re Andrew’s wife. Pleased to meet you. I’m—’

  ‘Carl,’ Deacon said, from behind her right shoulder. ‘Good to see you.’ The two men shook hands. Deacon gave a brief nod to the man in the wheelchair. ‘Bill.’

  The other man grunted, but Deacon was no longer looking at him. He’d turned back to the first man. ‘You’ve met Amelia, then. Your drink, darling,’ he said, and handed the cold glass of Coke to her. He wasn’t drinking. Then, ‘Carl’s the chap who’s been doing such a marvellous job of running my gallery.’

  ‘Yeah, well,’ said Carl, with a grin, ‘I expect I’ll be looking for work soon, though, won’t I?’

  Deacon felt in his pocket for his cigarette case. ‘Actually, I was hoping to persuade you to stay on a little longer.’ He found the case; offered the cigarettes round. ‘I may be going travelling again.’

  It was Sylvia who asked him, ‘Where to this time?’

  Georgie took a cigarette and waited to see what he’d give for an answer. He held his lighter up for her and she felt the half-quizzical brush of his gaze as he noticed her still-heightened colour, and then with his eyes squarely fixed on her own he replied, ‘I’ve been offered a short-term position in Lisbon.’

  Lisbon, she thought. Her eyes lowered. So he would be flying.

  The lighter clicked shut. He went on, in his quiet and casual way, ‘With Ivan Reynolds.’

  That impressed those who heard it, and for a minute the talk swirled around the great reclusive millionaire and what he’d done, and what they’d heard he’d done, and what he might be like to work for. But Bill, in his wheelchair, ignored all the gossip and looked up at Deacon with open contempt.

  ‘Lisbon,’ he said, his loud voice breaking through all the others. ‘That’s Portugal, right? They’ve stayed out of the war, haven’t they?’

  Deacon said yes, they were neutral.

  ‘Neutral.’ Bill took a long drink of his whiskey. ‘No chance you’ll get hurt there, then, is there?’

  Deacon couldn’t have missed the implied insult, but he just said, very lightly, ‘No. Lucky for me.’ And with that he looked over the crowd and said, ‘Will you excuse us a moment? There’s somebody I want Amelia to meet.’

  As he steered her through the crowd he said, quite low, beside her ear, ‘You know, you mustn’t let him bother you. He drinks. I told you earlier.’ Then, as she said nothing, he added, ‘I’m sorry if he was rude to you. I shan’t leave you on your own again, all right?’

  And he didn’t. True to the role of a newlywed husband, he stayed close by her side for the rest of their time there. They didn’t stay long, really. Just long enough for the word to get round of his going to Portugal, which seemed to be, Georgie decided, the main purpose of their being there this evening.

  ‘And will you go, too?’ someone asked her.

  She didn’t know what she should say, until Deacon cut in with, ‘Oh, no, she’ll stay here. I shouldn’t be gone all that long, really, and it’s much safer keeping to this side of the Atlantic.’

  A woman shook her head. ‘Oh, but you’ll miss her. Won’t you miss her?’

  ‘Yes, I will,’ he said convincingly. His gaze found hers and fell away. ‘I’ll miss her very much.’

  They left soon after that. She wasn’t at all sorry to leave – the room had been more crowded and more noisy and more smoke-filled than she liked, and by comparison the elevator felt quite fresh and spacious. She enjoyed the silence, too, at first. But then she cleared her throat and asked, ‘Why did you tell them? About going to Lisbon, I mean.’

  Her words called him out of his own thoughts. He lifted his head. ‘There’s nothing secret about that. They’ll find out soon enough that’s where I am. Ours is a rather small fraternity – news tends to travel quickly. It would seem more suspicious,’ he said, ‘if I went without telling them first.’

  ‘But you didn’t say anything before.’

  ‘The timing wasn’t set, before.’

  ‘And now it is?’

  ‘Yes, well, it all depends—’ he started.

  ‘On the Clipper.’

  ‘On the Clipper, yes.’

  She interlaced her hands in her soft leather gloves, pushing them more firmly onto her fingers. She didn’t want to think about the Pan Am Clipper. There was a reason, she knew, why the luxury airliner didn’t run scheduled flights on a publicised flight path. These days, any aircraft crossing the Atlantic was a target.

  In the quiet pause that followed she could feel that he was watching her. At last he asked her, ‘Are you very tired?’

  ‘No, not really. Why?’

  ‘Because it’s early yet.’ His smile was brief, but warm. ‘And I do think that it would be a crime,’ he said, ‘to waste that dress.’

  * * *

  He took her to the Roosevelt Hotel, down on Madison Ave. She never did learn just how he had managed it – whether he’d made reservations in advance, or whether he’d arranged it somehow in the few telephone calls that he’d placed from the San Remo’s lobby before they had left. She was beginning to believe that one should never underestimate this quiet man, who seemed so very ordinary till one focused carefully and tried to really see him.

  She was seeing him tonight, and he looked anything but ordinary.

  Not classically handsome, like Kenneth…he’d never be that…and he didn’t have Kenneth’s immediate presence, nor the easy way Ken settled into any social setting. But there was something… Georgie couldn’t put her finger on it, exactly, but there was something about Deacon that attracted her, against her strength of will.

  At first, she blamed it on the atmosphere – the lighted tables, intimate; the dancing, and the music of the orchestra – Guy Lombardo and the Royal Canadians, Deacon had pointed out, in case she’d been feeling a little bit homesick. He’d apologis
ed for it not being a more lively jazz club, which he felt she would have preferred, but their BSC bosses had warned them away from such places. Presumably, Georgie thought, because the girls she worked with went to clubs like that, and they might run the risk of being seen.

  They weren’t too likely to be spotted at the Roosevelt Hotel. None of her room-mates could afford a night like this, she thought. In the beautiful black beaded dress, sitting here with her very first glass of champagne, she felt like she’d magically stepped into one of the movies she’d watched at the Paramount.

  She blamed the champagne, too, for what she was feeling. Not that she was drunk – she’d only had a few small sips – but she found it so much simpler to blame something for her new, confused emotions.

  Deacon glanced across the table; met her eyes. ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘Nothing, really.’ She turned her head to watch the couples dancing. ‘I just…’ She couldn’t express it, and so she said, instead, ‘I’ve never been anywhere like this.’

  He misunderstood. ‘Perhaps you would rather have stayed at the party?’

  Georgie smiled at that. ‘No. I would not.’

  ‘Oh?’ He seemed intrigued. ‘You didn’t like the company?’

  ‘I didn’t like the host.’

  ‘I see.’ He offered her a cigarette, and took one for himself. ‘What did he say to you that made you so upset? Did he insult you?’

  His eyes were thoughtful, and concerned, and Georgie knew she’d have to give an answer, or he’d never let it go. She shrugged one shoulder, breathing out a careful stream of smoke. ‘It wasn’t about me, actually.’

  ‘Oh? What, then?’

  ‘It was more about you.’

  ‘About me?’ He seemed faintly surprised.

  ‘Yes. He implied that you…well, that you weren’t…’