Buried Secrets (15 page)

Afterward, Gillian could not remember an afternoon so enjoyable. After a visit to Magdalene College and a pleasant chat with young Master Neville, she and Cord strolled through the winding medieval streets of the town to lunch at the ancient Pelican Inn, located on another patch of riverbank.

They spoke on many subjects, discussing poets—Restoration and otherwise. They discovered that each thought the Corn Laws an abomination, found their Prince Regent less than admirable, and deplored the antics several years ago of Lord Byron and his paramour, the less-than-ladylike Lady Caro Lamb.

Cord divulged something of his childhood, and Gillian learned that his relations with his parents had been amicable, but nothing more. He told her of exploits at Eton and Cambridge with friends either long forgotten or still part of his life. She regaled him with tales of life in the small village of Netheringham, where she had grown up.

Of Saint Kenneth, Cord noted, she said little. His careful prodding resulted only in more revelations of his purity of character.

“You must have loved him a great deal,” he said at last, reaching to touch her hand.

She stared enigmatically at him for a moment before replying. “Yes, I did,” she said simply. “And he loved me—with an unselfish devotion I’ve never encountered since,” she finished almost fiercely. She blinked as though startled at her own vehemence, then drew a deep breath and said in calmer tone, “You have told me a great deal about your early life. Cord, but on the day we met you said something about an army career. I don’t think I have heard you speak of it since. How long did you serve?”

Cord stiffened, experiencing the tightening in the pit of his stomach that always occurred when his stint in the army was mentioned. “I would hardly call it a career,” he said lightly. “I bought a pair of colors when I was just down from Oxford, in ‘05. I thought it would be a glorious adventure to give old Boney a drubbing.” He laughed shortly. “I found it very much to the contrary. In fact, I must tell you, my dear,” he drawled, “I found the whole thing tedious in the extreme.”

“But, you must have taken part in some of the battles. Surely, they were hardly, er, tedious.”

“No.” Cord found that he was having difficulty with his breathing. “They were, in fact, unspeakable.” With a monumental effort, he dredged up his former lightness of tone. “Literally—for I most assuredly do not wish to speak of the matter anymore. It was a part of my life I would just as soon forget.”

He picked up one of the volumes that lay between them on the sturdy wooden planking of their table. “I wonder if these will provide Uncle Henry with any new insights into the mystery of the coded diary.” He laughed somewhat unsteadily. “Goodness, that sounds like the title of a very bad play.”

Idly, he opened the book.

“I see no great difference in the character of the symbols from those of the first two volumes,” he said. Suddenly, he frowned. Something—a wisp of memory flashed into his brain.

“What is it?” asked Gillian. “Have you—?”

“I ... I don’t know.” Cord continued to stare at the strange scrawl. “I ... I don’t . . . That is ... there’s something.” He sighed. “No, it’s gone.” He looked up to laugh into her eyes, an action that, to her vast annoyance, caused her knees to turn to soup. “It’s just that the more I study these marks, the more I am sure I’ve seen something like them before, but I cannot for the life of me think where.”

Their conversation on the drive home was light, interspersed with fits of abstraction on Cord’s part. The sun was warm and the breeze scented with the first blossoms of a burgeoning spring. Gillian knew she would remember this magical afternoon as long as she lived.

Chapter Eleven

The enchanted days of long drives and idle conversation continued. On the occasions, frequent in number, when it rained. Cord usually braved the elements to spend hours before a cozy fire in the cottage parlor. Though Gillian absorbed the pleasure of Cord’s company like a watered flower, as time passed she noticed within herself some feelings of ... irritation? As much as she enjoyed being with Cord—as much as she felt herself thriving under his interest in her—a friendly interest, of course—she wondered why he had made no move to return to London. He had responsibilities there, after all. His Corisande might not be the bride of his choice, but surely he owed the woman an explanation of his desertion of her on the eve of their betrothal. Not that she believed the earl to consider the sensibilities of anyone other than himself.

He had behaved admirably in the matter of the diary, of course. His actions had not involved much effort on his part, to be sure, but his decision not to turn her over to the authorities on the night of her last unauthorized entry on the sacred precincts of Magdalene College, and his subsequent efforts to secure access to the diary for her uncle bespoke a man willing to help his friends when he could.

Still, it seemed to Gillian that, although a marriage between Cord and Corisande would be a disaster, the young woman in question had been left in a most unpleasant lurch, and it was up to Cord to set matters right. Which he showed no sign of doing.

Gillian acknowledged to herself that she had not the slightest right to regulate the earl’s affairs. Indeed, even if she were in such a position, her own life choices left her little room to point fingers or call kettles black. Was she not herself a drifter? All her life she had been a dutiful daughter to her parents. When Kenneth had moved into the neighborhood in her eighteenth year, a union between the two was soon looked on as inevitable.

But Kenneth went off to war and never returned. And it was all her fault. Gillian shook herself. No, she would not think of all that now. She had not made a conscious decision to turn away from life, but that was what she had done. Other men had stepped up to take Kenneth’s place, but, having been brought to the realization of her elemental flaw, she merely smiled politely and allowed them to fall back again, either through a lack of persistence or interest in thawing out Miss Tate’s reputedly cold heart.

Not that she was unhappy. When it became apparent that her favorite relatives. Uncle Henry and Aunt Louisa, were in need of assistance, slight though it was, she’d been eager to escape the turmoil she had created to come live with them. She had never regretted that decision and had made a new life for herself in the quiet backwater that was Great Shelford. This life suited her, she declared stoutly to herself, and though the advent of the Earl of Cordray had caused a definite upheaval, this was where she belonged. This was where she would stay—or someplace like it when Uncle and Aunt reached the end of their days.

She could not, however, allow the same latitude for the earl. He was an important man. He had duties and responsibilities, and it seemed wrong that he should forget them, all for an idyllic sojourn—a lengthy sojourn— in the country. She was uncomfortably aware that a part of her would like to assume it was her own beguiling self that kept Cord here. But she was no Circe, compelling Odysseus to forget his obligations. No, she feared Cord was simply one of life’s lillies of the field. He toiled not, neither did he spin, instead leaving it to others to clean up the chaos he created.

This rather dismaying concept of Cord’s character was further strengthened one evening at dinner. Cord had joined them, as usual, and the conversation was convivial—as usual.

“Do tell us, Cord,” said Aunt Louisa, accepting a second helping of trifle from Widdings, “how long do you plan to stay at Wildehaven?”

Cord cast a rather shamefaced glance at Gillian before answering. “I really don’t know, Mrs. Ferns. I planned to stay for only a few days, but I am enjoying my stay vastly. I don’t know when I shall return to London.”

“But, surely your family and friends must be missing you,” persisted Aunt Louisa. “And what about your responsibilities? Surely a man in your position—”

Cord lifted an impatient hand. “But that is one of the perquisites of being a man in my position, Mrs. Ferris. One can pay a great many people to take those responsibilities from one’s shoulders. As for my family and friends, I am sure they are doing quite well without me for the moment.”

Cord realized that his tone had been sharper than he’d intended, and he felt a twinge of compunction on observing Mrs. Ferris’s chastened expression. “But, you are right, dear lady,” he continued. “It is time for me to think about returning to my duties.”

“Nonsense,” interposed Sir Henry gruffly, “you’ve only just got here. I’ve enjoyed your company, young man, and you’ve given me a fresh insight into translating the diary. Surely, your family won’t miss you for another few days. If they do—why let ‘em come here.”

At this, Cord nearly dropped his fork. He had felt secure in his little bolt-hole, but what if Aunt Binsted happened to think of the obscure bequest made to him two years ago. The next moment, he relaxed. There was no reason why she should make any such leap of intellect. At any rate, he had already decided that it was high time he confronted his aunt with his newly formed determination not to marry. On the other hand, he would much rather beard the marchioness in her own den. The thought of her striding up to the front door of Wildehaven, with his uncle at her back—to say nothing of Corisande and her family—sent a shiver down his spine.

At that moment, Mrs. Ferns lifted her hand for silence.

“Listen!” she exclaimed. “It has come on to rain again, and it sounds a perfect torrent.”

Indeed, the rain could be heard pelting against roof and windows. The wind had risen as well, and the sound moaned in the chimneys. Lightning could be seen flashing intermittently against the drawn curtains, accompanied by booms of thunder. As they finished dinner and repaired later to the parlor, the storm grew in strength. As the usual time for Cord’s departure approached, it showed no sign of abating.

“Well, you’ll just have to spend the night here,” said Mrs. Ferris at last.

“No!” cried Cord and Gillian together.

Good heavens, thought Gillian, Cord and she sleeping under the same roof? The idea made her extremely uneasy.

As though echoing her thoughts. Cord declared, “Nonsense, Mrs. Ferris, I think I won’t melt under a little rain.”

However, when, a while later, the little family stood en masse at the door to bid Cord good night, as Sir Henry opened the door, a gust of wind took it from his hands and blew it against the wall with a window-rattling crash. A shower of rain entered with the wind, drenching the assembled group. Sir Henry retrieved the door and slammed it shut.

“Phew!” he exclaimed. Hurrying to a window, he pointed dramatically. “M’sister is right, Cord. You won’t be going anywhere tonight.”

Cord followed the direction of his pointing finger. Little could be seen in the inky blackness outside, but occasional lightning flashes illuminated the outline of trees, tossing wildly in the wind. Enough light flowed from the room to the driveway to reveal, not a neatly graveled carriageway, but a swirling river, rushing past the house.

“We’ll hear no more about it. Cord,” stated Aunt Louisa firmly. “You’re staying here. I doubt if your people at Wildehaven will be expecting you home, but will realize you could not leave here.”

Cord was forced to agree that only a madman or a fool would venture into the storm and so capitulated with suitable expressions of gratitude. Glancing at Gillian’s stiff countenance, he tried to reassure her with a small but meaningful smile that he would not use the situation to avail himself of a repetition of that heated encounter in the kitchen.

As it turned out, neither Cord nor Gillian need have concerned themselves with visions of another tête-à-tête in the parlor before an intimate hearth fire. A small flurry ensued, with Aunt Louisa summoning the serving maid with instructions as to the bedchamber his lordship would be gracing with his presence that evening. Uncle Henry took Cord upstairs to provide him with a nightshirt. A fresh toothbrush and other essentials were also forthcoming, and Cord barely had a chance to bid Gillian a hasty good night before he found himself ushered into a pleasant bedchamber, evidently kept in readiness for unexpected visitors.

Later, lying between fresh-smelling sheets, he lay staring up at the canopy over his head. He had no idea in which direction Gillian’s bedchamber lay. In other circumstances, with any other woman, he would most probably have made this determination one of his priorities before retiring for the night. He wondered how she might greet a midnight visitor in search of a little conversation—and a little something else as well. He almost laughed aloud. He could just imagine his reception. She’d comb his hair with a joint stool and send him on his way. Not, of course, that he had any intention of going back on his vow of a purely platonic relationship with Gillian, but. Lord, he thought, nobility of soul could be a severe trial to a man. He thought of Gillian, undressing and donning a night rail—possibly one of those filmy things that revealed every delicious curve—with rosebuds embroidered along an enticingly low neckline. She would brush that glorious mane before climbing into bed, and once under the covers she’d compose herself for sleep. He pictured her moving sensuously beneath her quilt, turning her face into a scented pillow, and, finally, he imagined her lashes fanning over her cheeks of purest alabaster as her breathing grew deeper.

His own breathing was about to choke him, he discovered, and he made a valiant, if not wholly successful attempt to expunge the image of Gillian at bedtime from his thoughts. He wondered muzzily, just before he drifted off, if Gillian might be thinking of him as well.

It might have surprised Cord to learn that, indeed, thoughts of the unwanted guest were spinning through Gillian’s mind like miniature whirlwinds stirring leaves in the park. After donning her night rail, a prosaic garment of sturdy cotton, and dragging a brush several times through her hair, she climbed into bed. She attempted to read the book currently occupying her bedside table, but on this night Mrs. Edgeworth failed to grip her attention. Tossing it aside, she blew out the candle, scrunched down beneath the covers and attempted to sleep.