Three Little Secrets (10 page)

“Mamma,” he finally whispered. “Do you think bad things happen for a reason?”

“Well, I cannot say,” she answered. “That question covers a lot of ground. What sort of bad things?”

“I don’t know.” He snuffled quietly for a moment. “But do you think…well, do you think we can make bad things happen? Or…or does God make them happen?”

“I suppose we can make bad things happen, my love, if we make bad decisions,” said Madeleine. Somehow, she knew that was not quite the right thing to say. She wished desperately that she knew what he was getting at.

Geoffrey rolled over ever so slightly, and looked up at the ceiling. “I mean, Mamma, that if we
thought
a bad thing—even by accident—and then someone…someone got hurt because of it, would it be our fault? Would we go to hell?”

“Geoffrey, bad thoughts cannot cause someone to get hurt.”

He was very quiet for a long moment, his gaze growing distant and unfocused. “But you do not know that, Mamma,” he finally said. “Not really. We can none of us know for sure all the things that are possible on this earth. Can we?”

Madeleine took his hand in hers, and squeezed it very hard. “Geoff, I
do
know,” she said resolutely. “Your bad thoughts cannot make something bad happen. That is just—” She had been about to use the word
silly
, but it would upset him, she knew. “That is God’s business,” she went on. “Not ours. He makes the decisions, according to his plan for us.”

“That’s what Mr. Frost says,” Geoff answered.

Madeleine set the backs of her fingers to his feverish cheek. “Your tutor is a man of good sense and of science,” she said. “You should listen to him, Geoff, and talk to him, if you cannot do so with to me.”

Geoff looked at her with regret in his eyes. “It is not that, Mamma,” he answered. “It is just that—well, you
are
my mother. You—you have to love me, do you not?”

Madeleine wondered if that were so. Had her parents loved her? She had never known her mother, who had died before Madeleine’s second birthday. And her father—well, he had been a busy and important man. His political aspirations had often kept him from home. Seeing him for a month at Christmas, and being patted on the head like a spaniel had been about all that Madeleine could hope for. Until Geoffrey’s birth, she had believed that that was enough. But then she had learnt what an utterly consuming emotion one’s love for one’s child truly was.

Gently, she leaned over him, and set her cheek to his. “I do not know, Geoffrey, if I have to love you,” she finally said. “I know only that I do, with every fiber of my being, and that it will ever be so.”

At that, he seemed to exhale, and relax. “I am glad, Mamma,” he finally said. “And I am glad that you are my mother, and not someone else.”

She gave a nervous little laugh. “How funny you are, Geoff,” she responded. “I am the only person who could be your mother, am I not?”

In her embrace, he seemed to shrug. Then he lay still for a long, silent moment. “Mamma?” he finally said.

“Yes, Geoff?”

“Do you think that Mrs. Drexel might have some of that lemon sponge cake left over from dinner last night?”

“I daresay she might,” said Madeleine.

And she knew then that the terrible black mood was over, and that persuade and plead as she might, Geoff would say no more. So she sat up, and dashed a hand beneath her eyes, and raced him down to the kitchen.

No hold can be got o’ water or fire.

I
t was dark. So dark and so cold, the wind like a knife cutting clean across the dales. But this was the place. He sensed it, though he could see nothing ahead but the muted glow of lamplight. He shouldered his way into the wind, but the journey went on forever.

He went up the steps, gingerly lifting his bad leg behind, rather like an afterthought. The pain was almost a comfort now. The sound of the knocker echoed hollowly. Then came the shaft of light as the massive door was cracked. Eyes. A face, old and withered. A lifted lamp, flickering uncertainly. “Eh?”

Ruthlessly, he shoved his foot into the crack of light. “Go tell your master I’ve come for my wife,” he said. “And I’ll not be leaving without her.”

“Eh?” The lamp inched higher. “Wot’s that?”

“Jessup,” he gritted. “Damn you, go tell him I’ve come.”

The door pressed in on his leg. “Gone dahn t’London, t’ master has,” said the creaking voice. “’Ouse is shut up, can’t ye see?”

“Lady Madeleine, then! Fetch her down here.”

“Eh? ’Oo?”

“Madeleine!” he shouted. “I wish to see Madeleine.”

“Gone, too,” said the creaky voice. “Gone abroad, ’er an’ Bessett. The ’ouse is shut up, see. Now tek your foot out t’ door, if ye please.”

The lamp shifted, throwing eerie, flickering shadows across the doorstep. “Bessett?” he asked. “Who the devil is Bessett?”

“Oh, he’d be the ’usband.”

“No! Stop!” The pressure of the heavy door was like a vise. Good God, did they mean to shatter his leg anew? “Damn it, no! We—we were wed in July. I am her husband now.”

The wizened head shook. “Dunt ye undastand, mon? Married at Michaelmas, she was. And gone awa’.”

“No! No!” He thrashed, trying to twist his leg from the door’s relentless grip. “Fetch her down here now, by God! She’s my wife! Mine!”

“Well, we’d be knowing nowt o’ that,” said the voice. “Now, good neet to ye, sir.”

“No!” The crack of light was closing now, wrenching his leg from its hip socket again. “No! No! Open the door!”

“Sir? Sir?” The voice was distant, the pain unyielding.

Merrick lashed out, but the enemy—if there had been one—was gone.

“Sir, your bad leg! Do hold still.”

He came half-awake, wincing at the pain. Something bound him. Ropes? No. Good God—sheets! They were snarled about his body like a shroud. And his leg—it was wedged between the spindles of the footboard at the ankle, and turned at a precarious angle.

“You fought a good fight, sir,” murmured Phipps as he unfurled the linen from his knee. “Your demons must have taken a proper thrashing last night.”

“My goddamned leg!” growled Merrick. “Christ, what happened?”

“Just a nightmare,” answered Phipps, still bent over the footboard. “There! You may extract the leg, I believe. Carefully, sir! Yes, there we have it.”

Using only the strength of his arms, Merrick dragged himself up into a sitting position. Pain flooded through his weak limb as the blood stirred again. For an instant, he closed his eyes, grappling for control, struggling to quiet his breathing, which was still coming short and fast.

On the night table, he could hear the
chink
of china and silver as Phipps prepared his coffee. The man was a master at pretending nothing was amiss, no matter how bad Merrick’s night—or his temper. “Mr. Evans wishes to see you first thing, sir,” he said, tinkling a teaspoon about in the strong, black brew. “Something about the bank rates. And your clerk of works from the Wapping warehouse project has brought up a set of drawings for revision.”

Merrick managed to grin. “Aye, well, idle hands do the devil’s work, don’t they, Phipps?”

Phipps gave a tight smile and handed him his cup and saucer. “Speaking of the devil, Mr. Chutley has sent another of his raving diatribes,” he continued. “I’ve put it with the others.”

“I begin to think him insane,” grumbled Merrick. “And that his bloody brickworks is going to be more trouble than it’s worth.”

“You may be right, sir,” said Phipps. “Also, Sir Edgar Rigg and his investors wish you to meet them at Mivart’s for luncheon,” he went on. “It’s about the Hampstead project. Shall I arrange a private parlor?”

Merrick cleared his throat sharply. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, thank you, Phipps. For everything.”

“Indeed, sir,” said Phipps, going to the windows to pull back the draperies. “And you have not forgotten, I hope, your five o’clock appointment with Lord Treyhern?”

“The fellow from Cornwall?” asked Merrick.

“Gloucestershire, I believe,” said Phipps, going to the dressing table to lay out Merrick’s razor and brushes. “Though the title is Cornish.”

“I dislike blue-blooded investors,” grumbled Merrick. “Why can’t they just stick to the five-percents? I’ve yet to meet one with the stomach for this business.”

“The gentleman has already made a fortune in banking,” cautioned Phipps. “I rather doubt speculative real estate will scare him off. And Evans says he’s not afraid to roll up his shirtsleeves and do an honest day’s work, either.”

That got Merrick’s interest. “And he has an option on some coastal property, you say?”

“Near Lyme Regis,” said Phipps. “But you’d best speak to Evans about the details. He is convinced that there is money to be made.”

As he bathed and dressed, Merrick considered it. He did not like partnerships; he preferred to control his own destiny. But in another few months, he would have wrung all the profit to be had out of Walham Green. And if he was unable to obtain the property in Hampstead at a reasonable price…

He needed to build, damn it—and he needed to control every facet of the process, too. Well,
need
was perhaps the wrong word. He knew, logically, that he could live the life of a sultan solely on the income from his civil engineering firm and never do another day’s work in his life. Or he could fall back on his reputation as a classical architect, certainly a more socially acceptable option, if one gave a damn. He did not. The ability to build large, unassailable things—and the financial power and independence which such successes brought him—was his only burning ambition now.

To build on a grand scale, however, one needed land. Large tracts of it. And the Earl of Treyhern, it seemed, held the option on a prime swath of acreage. Merrick sighed and resigned himself to another day away from his precious construction sites.

For over a week, Madeleine remained undecided about her future. She and Geoff had visited with Lady Treyhern on three separate occasions, and it had become increasingly obvious to Geoff that the countess was more than a little curious about him. On one afternoon, Lady Treyhern made a pretense of wishing to stroll in the garden alone with the boy. Throughout it all, Geoff remained calm and courteous. Madeleine could not have asked for a better behaved—or more normal—child.

Matters regarding the house were even more unsettled. She did not return to Rosenberg’s office to pay for the house, or to return the deed. She felt as if her life had again been set on its edge, and that some momentous change might well lie around the next bend. It was not what she wanted. She wanted, rather, to be settled—settled in a life so mundane and predicable as to almost numb the mind. She did not wish to remember the yearning ache of young love. She did not wish to tremble at any man’s touch—let alone
that
man’s.

The things Merrick had told her were horrifying. Madeleine still wished to reject them out of hand, but something nagged at the back of her mind. She had long ago come to terms with Merrick’s betrayal—or perhaps
duplicity
was a better word.
Betrayal
suggested a change in his affections. Her father had claimed there had been none; that Merrick had never really cared for her. Once, she had been certain of Merrick’s love, and of hers.

In any event, she could not bear to revisit that part of her life now. She wished she had someone sensible to whom she might turn for advice, but there was no one, save perhaps for Lady Treyhern, who had her hands full with Geoff. Moreover, Merrick’s claims were so wild, so thoroughly life-shattering, Madeleine could bring herself to discuss them with no one, not even Eliza.

She considered, of course, calling upon a solicitor or a barrister or someone who understood legal and ecclesiastical matters; such a person might know how to go about disproving Merrick’s allegations. But how did one find or trust such men? What if the mere asking of questions stirred up old gossip? The proverbial dirt had already been swept under the rug by her father, and rather thoroughly, too. What would people say if they even suspected Madeleine had lived all those years as wife to a man she mightn’t have been legally married to? What would happen to Geoffrey?

As had become her habit, Madeleine awoke on a beautiful late-spring morning with all these worrisome thoughts milling about in her brain. On this particular morning, however, she was resolved to do something, however small, about it. While Eliza bustled about, tidying the small bedchamber, Madeleine took her morning chocolate to her writing desk and drew out a fresh sheet of letter paper.

“I am writing to Cousin Gerald in Sheffield,” she said to Eliza. Gerald was her father’s heir, and the present Earl of Jessup. “Would you care to include a letter to anyone at home?”

“Thank you, my lady,” said Eliza as she tucked up the sheets. “I might jot a line to Aunt Esther, if you’re in no hurry?”

Madeleine looked up from her writing and smiled. “I wonder, Eliza, that you do not often get homesick,” she mused. “You have been gadding about with me for an age now.”

“But I have seen the world, ma’am,” said Eliza. “Or parts of it. And I have seen Mr. Geoffrey grow up. A rare pleasure, that has been.”

Eliza’s family had long served the successive earls of Jessup. Her aunt Esther had begun as Madeleine’s nursery maid, and at the age of eleven, Eliza had been taken on as a seamstress. A few years thereafter, Madeleine’s father had chosen Eliza to accompany Madeleine abroad in her new role as Lady Bessett. Madeleine’s previous lady’s maid had been dismissed without a character for her involvement in Madeleine’s elopement.

At first, Madeleine had resented the younger girl. She had not wanted a new lady’s maid, nor had she wished to marry Bessett, or even to go abroad, come to that. She had been terrified of the future, and, she now realized, despondent almost to the point of mental collapse. But Madeleine’s father had been beyond caring what she wished. He had taken down his razor strop, soundly blistered the backs of her legs, then suggested Bessett do the same if she became a willful wife.

She had not been willful. Indeed, she soon realized she was fortunate Bessett had agreed to take her on at all. He had done so, he told her, out of duty to her late mother, his kinswoman. Bessett’s expectations of his wife were simple, and threefold: whilst he traveled and studied, she was to ensure that life’s petty annoyances were dealt with, she was to keep the children out of his hair, and she was to warm his bed when the notion crossed his mind—which, thank God, it did not often do. Bessett lived in the past; the realities, or even the desires, of the temporal world were not welcome intrusions.

“I have been glad, Eliza, to have you with me all these years,” Madeleine continued. “But if ever you wish to return to Sheffield, I would understand. And I know Cousin Gerald would make a place for you.”

“And for you, too, ma’am,” Eliza insisted. “If you and Mr. Geoffrey aren’t happy here, you can always go home, can’t you?”

Madeleine’s expression turned inward. “No, I think not,” she said quietly. Her last weeks at Sheffield had been horrific ones, and thirteen years had not dulled the pain. Even if Gerald was willing to welcome her…no, not even to escape Merrick would she return to that place.

Hastily, she finished her letter. “I am asking Gerald to send down some of Papa’s things, Eliza,” she said when it was done. “He’ll likely need to send a cart. Is there anything you wish brought?”

“No, thank you, my lady.” She paused in her work, a careful refolding of Madeleine’s stockings. “What sorts of things, ma’am? If you don’t mind my asking?”

Distracted, Madeleine looked up. “I’m sorry?”

“What sorts of things would you be wanting, ma’am, that would require a cart to come all the way from Sheffield?”

Madeleine stared blindly out the window. “Oh, Papa’s files, and his letters,” she answered. “His calendars, and personal papers; things which Gerald will be glad to be rid of, I am sure. I should have taken them years ago.”

“Oh,” said Eliza.

Madeleine turned to see that the maid was refolding the same pair of stockings. “Eliza, is anything amiss?”

Eliza looked up, her eyes widening. “N-No, my lady,” she answered. “But—well, I was just wondering about something.”

“About what, Eliza?”

“Do you remember, ma’am, the girl you had before me?” she asked. “The French girl?”

“Florette?” Madeleine had not thought of her in a very long time. Twice in one day was rather more than she wished. She had always felt a sense of guilt for the predicament she’d got Florette into. To be dismissed without a character was the worst fate that could befall a servant.

“She went back to France, didn’t she?” asked Eliza. “After we left for Rome, ma’am, Aunt Esther said that she wrote a time or two—or mayhap someone wrote for her.”

“Wrote?” asked Madeleine. “Wrote to whom?”

“Why, to the master, my lady,” said Eliza, her face a little pink. “Pray do not think Aunt Esther a gossip, but she found it terrible peculiar, those letters coming from so far away.”

“But my father turned Florette off,” said Madeleine. “Why would a dismissed servant write to him?”

“I cannot say, my lady,” Eliza answered. “But you might find an answer in those papers, if they come.”

Madeleine looked at her incredulously. “What is your point, Eliza?” she asked. “What is it you are not telling me?”