Sea of Secrets: A Novel of Victorian Romantic Suspense (41 page)

“You are too generous, ma’am,” I managed. “Perhaps my presence that night was lucky, but you do me too much credit.”

“Oh, I think not,” she said evenly, and in uncertainty my eyes sought her face. She was watching me with a faint, sweet smile. “Herron came to me before he left and told me what you did. It was you who saved him, child, and I’ll not forget it. I can never thank you enough.” Leaning forward, she clasped her hands over mine, folding my fingers around the brooch. “I only wish you had trusted me enough to tell me the truth,” she said reproachfully. “What did you think I would do? Cast you out, or throw you on the mercy of the courts?” When I did not answer, her voice gentled. “Surely you know me well enough to realize I would understand that you only did what you had to do.”

“I was afraid of what you would think of me,” I admitted. “You have always been so kind to me, but this was something you never bargained for when you took me in. I was certain you’d believe you had been deceived in me, that I was an evil woman you would not want to associate with.” Not even the knowledge that Herron and I had felt some other force helping me fight my father had entirely absolved me of this fear.

“Evil! You!” She burst out in mirth. “Oh, my dear child, I should not laugh at you; you must have been in torment, fearing your secret would come out. But there is nothing in what happened to make me see evil in you. In fact, given the right circumstances, I think everyone is capable of killing. I know that I am.”

“You could never murder anyone!”

“Oh, I could; but, in any case, acting as you did—to save another life—that is not murder. You are no more capable of cold-blooded, deliberate murder than… than Claude. There is some situation in which everyone will kill, whether it is to save her own life or that of someone she loves. That does not make her a killer by nature, or mean that, having destroyed once, she will ever do so again.” Seeing that she had made her point, she went on blithely. “Now, I am made differently. I am entirely capable of committing murder, just as Hugo was.”

“I do not believe it,” I said warmly. “You could never be so malicious.”

“It is not a matter of malice, my dear; had I known what Hugo was about, I could most certainly have killed him. I would have, to protect Herron and Claude. I could have calmly and deliberately planned to end his life, and I would have taken the proper steps to do so.”

Incredulous, I looked at her curled there on the divan, speaking so serenely of murder. With her spun-gold hair and frothy gown, she resembled a murderess about as much as a kitten. Curiosity got the better of me, and I asked, “How?”

She put her head on one side with a thoughtful moue. “Poison would have been effective, although it has a number of drawbacks,” she mused. “Perhaps I would have sent for him to meet me in my boudoir and then, when he arrived, stabbed him with my letter opener; I would then have spread the story that he had made an indecent advance, and I had been forced to defend my honor. Or I could have suggested an archery competition and accidentally shot him. (I am an excellent archer.) I could have crept into his room at night and used a pistol on him, then hidden the silver and claimed a tramp had broken into the house.” She shrugged carelessly. “There are all sorts of ways.”

“I see,” I said, dazed, and her trilling laugh rang out again.

“Now I have shocked you. Don’t worry, my dear; unless Herron or Claude is ever in danger again, I don’t expect I shall have to act upon my deadly impulses. I may be capable of murder, but I would not engage in it without good cause. Now,” she commanded, leaning toward me, “tell me your fears about all of this have been set at rest.”

“They have,” I said gratefully. “I am sorry I did not trust you, ma’am.”

“And you will never hesitate to trust in me in the future, will you? There is nothing in your character that could ever cause me to turn against you.”

“How can you be so sure?” I could not help asking it, even though I did not want to find fault with her kindness. “How can any of us really be certain we know what those around us are capable of?”

She rose to her feet and shook out her gown. “Sometimes we cannot, dear, but often our hearts tell us enough. In any case, we cannot depend on absolute certainty; sometimes we must take people on faith, and trust them even if we risk being hurt.”

She moved to the door, but I sat motionless and continued to ponder this. “It is a risk,” I said slowly. “But I suppose that if we refused to take that risk—protected ourselves by regarding everyone with suspicion and caution—we would never have a chance at happiness.” I remembered Herron as he had been, cut off from all human connections because of his fear and distrust, and knew that I had been doing the same thing since my father’s death.

Shaking myself out of my reverie, I rose to see the duchess out. “Thank you for everything you have given me,” I said. “My home, my brooch, my peace of mind.”

Beaming, she held out her arms to me, and we embraced. “You are most kindly welcome,” she said. “Now, don’t you think you should write to Charles and tell him to come to you?”

“I already have,” I said, and she laughed and departed.

* * *

Charles returned on a golden evening in spring. I had been daydreaming over a book on the back terrace, but when I heard the sound of carriage wheels on the gravel drive I leapt to my feet and ran around to the front of the house. Charles was just alighting, and when he saw me he smiled broadly and opened his arms. I ran to them.

“Something is different about you,” I said after a time, when he had released me long enough for me to speak. “I can’t tell just what, though. Kiss me again.”

“Gladly,” he replied, and did so with an enthusiasm that left me breathless. When I emerged again I cried, “Your moustache is gone!”

He grinned down at me, his eyes so brilliantly blue they seemed the color of heaven. “I thought it a fitting gesture. Leaving behind the last vestige of my life as a soldier to become a husband.”

“Well, perhaps we should talk before you make any definite plans.” Firmly I fought down my elation, reminding myself that I must get the thing I dreaded over with before I could be secure in my happiness. The coachman and Jenkins were both watching us with interest and barely concealed amusement, as was Miss Yates from the morning room; we needed privacy. I slipped my hand into Charles’s to lead him away.

“I wondered what had made you change your mind,” he commented, as we walked across the terrace away from our audience. “When I got your letter, I thought—I hoped—that your doubts were resolved. Is something still troubling you?”

“No,” I said, seating myself on the wide stone balustrade and drawing him down beside me, “but it may trouble you when you learn of it.” I took a deep breath and faced him. “You may not wish to marry me once you know the truth of what happened to my father. He did not slip and fall from the roof accidentally, as you thought. I pushed him. I did it deliberately, knowing it would kill him, because it was the only way I could think to keep him from murdering Herron.”

Then I waited.

His eyebrows drew together in bewilderment. “That is why you sent me away? Because you feared I would discover this?” When I nodded, he said gently, “But Oriel, I knew it already.”

“You
knew
?” I gasped.

“Of course I did. I saw you. My God, when I remember racing up to the roof and arriving just as you flung yourself at him, too late to do anything but watch as the two of you grappled at the edge of the roof… that was the worst moment of my life.” He pulled me into his arms again, and I was too amazed to resist, even had I wished to. “You seemed so horrified at yourself that I let you think I had misconstrued what I saw.”

“Then you don’t despise me?” My voice was muffled against his chest, but he caught the words.

“Despise you!” he retorted. “Oriel, you saved Herron’s life that night, and almost certainly your own as well. If I had gotten there first I would most likely have acted just as you did.” His voice took on a teasing note. “Even had he not been an embezzler and a would-be murderer, I could never have endured Pembroke as a father-in-law. Now, does that make you feel better?”

“Yes,” I said joyfully, turning my face up to his, “much better,” and whatever else I might have said was lost as his lips met mine.

Much, much later, when we were again disposed for conversation, we strolled to the cliffs to watch the sun set. He told me of the progress of his medical studies in Edinburgh, and I told him of all that had passed at Ellsmere since his departure—omitting a certain foolish soaking of mine.

“By the way,” said Charles, as we looked out over the sea, stained rose and gold in the setting sun, “would you rather have a big, showy, pretentious wedding in society, with a reception for three hundred, that takes months to arrange; or would you prefer a charming, intimate, expeditious ceremony on the way to Edinburgh?”

“Since you won’t state a preference,” I said demurely, “I’ll choose the second. You realize, though, that it will mean risking Felicity’s wrath by robbing her of the opportunity to be bridesmaid.”

“I’m willing to chance it,” he said comfortably, his arm snug around my waist. “My life has been so placid these last few weeks that a bit of danger will add some welcome savor.”

I could not repress a shudder as I recalled some of the “savor” we had lived through at Ellsmere. “It’s sad, but I won’t be entirely sorry to leave,” I reflected. “The duchess was right; there are a great many unhappy memories here.”

“And some very pleasant ones.”

“Granted. But I still wonder…”

“What?” he asked, when my voice trailed off.

I glanced up at him apologetically. “It’s probably unkind of me to mention the possibility to you. But since he’s to be my father-in-law… do you think your father killed the duke?”

Leaning against him, I felt him sigh, and when I looked up again he was staring unseeing at the horizon. “I’ve wondered that too,” he said. “It seems significant that he was killed just months before Herron’s birthday. That would suggest that the trust was a motive, and it would mean that my father would have had excellent reason, apart from his wish to marry Aunt Gwendolyn. But all the same, I find it hard to see him deciding to kill his own brother. I might believe it if his own life had been at stake, or Aunt Gwendolyn’s.”

“I keep coming to the same conclusion. Oh, I shouldn’t have mentioned it at all; I suppose Herron’s suspicions just planted themselves in my mind…”

“It is a mystery, though.” We fell silent, and presently Charles said, slowly, “One explanation did occur to me. It’s probably farfetched, but it would explain things.”

“Go on,” I urged him, when he seemed to hesitate. “I’m sure any theory of yours is quite sound.”

He threw me a quick glance of affection, and continued. “The two of them were hunting alone, which did not often happen; usually they went out with a party of guests and neighbors, or at least with the grooms. Perhaps one of them took the opportunity to bring up something that had become an obvious source of discord: my father’s love for Gwendolyn.

“Father might have asked Ambrose if there was any possibility of divorce; or perhaps my uncle had lost patience with Father’s all too evident affection for his wife. But however the subject arose, I think both of them realized that they could not continue as they had. The matter had to be resolved.” He turned to gaze behind us at the woods. “My uncle was a fierce defender of what he considered fairness. I can imagine the sort of solution that would have presented itself to him in that situation.”

“What?” I demanded.

He turned back to me with a grim smile. “A duel,” he said.

“But in the middle of the woods? In full daylight, with no seconds?”

“There are open stretches in the forest where they would have had unobstructed aim at each other. They had guns with them already, for the most natural of purposes, and precisely because they were known to be hunting the sound of gunshots would arouse no suspicion. It is just the kind of practical, cool-headed, cold-blooded plan that my uncle would have thought of, and my father would not have been able to refuse. My father fired first, as the challenged party, and my uncle went down.”

“But why claim it was an accident?” I wondered.

“Perhaps precisely because he had such good reason to want his brother dead, and knew what rumor would say. Or perhaps because he was afraid that Aunt Gwendolyn would hold her husband’s death against him.” Sheepishly, he inquired, “What do you think? Is it a ridiculous theory?”

“From what I have learned of your father and the duke, it sounds very likely,” I said, when I had considered it. It explained a great many things. “Are you going to ask your father?”

He did not even have to pause to think. “No,” he said. “I don’t know what good it would do. If I’m wrong, I’d prefer not to know; I don’t want to have to wonder about my father’s integrity for the rest of my life. And I would rather not distress Aunt Gwendolyn. It’s in the past now; there’s nothing to be gained by dwelling on it.” He looked down at me with a real smile now, the sort that made my heart turn over. “I would rather concentrate on the future.”

“So would I,” I said, and hand in hand we walked back to the house.

The End

Sea of Secrets
had its earliest origin in my crush on Hamlet. Not on the play, but on the character. When I first read Shakespeare’s tragedy as a teenager, I felt like I’d found my soulmate in the troubled prince. His tragic romance with Ophelia fascinated me, and I felt that their story was even more heartrending than those of other famous Shakespearean couples. Romeo and Juliet at least died secure in the knowledge of the other’s love. Ophelia died without such comforting knowledge; not until after her death did Hamlet admit how much he loved her.

I wanted to see more of their time together, and especially to see what their love affair might have been like before murder, political intrigue, and madness tore them apart. So I wrote a novel exploring the events of Shakespeare’s play from Ophelia’s perspective, showing how I felt her relationship with Hamlet might have played out in the moments not shown onstage.