Lord of Secrets (25 page)

“No, I mean perhaps you only think you were the one in control. I have a cousin not far from that age, you know, my aunt Whitwell’s son. I can no more imagine allowing him to make advances to me than I can imagine parading through the estate village in nothing but my chemise. Depending on the seriousness of the offense, I’d either give him a sharp set-down or box his ears, and I’m far from a strict disciplinarian.” She paused to make sure she had David’s full attention. “What if your aunt wanted you to think you were in control, both to draw you in and to absolve herself of any responsibility? Perhaps you weren’t doing monstrous things to her. Perhaps she was doing monstrous things to you.”

He darted a sharp glance in her direction, then looked away with a shake of his head. “No. I knew perfectly well what I was doing, at least by the time I was thirteen or fourteen. By fifteen, I was pressuring her to slip away with me, even when she tried to make excuses.”

At that moment Rosalie wished she might have a few minutes alone with David’s aunt. What she wouldn’t say to that creature! But even the worst words she could imagine seemed woefully inadequate. Just now, gazing at David’s haggard face, she felt capable of real violence. She understood now why David had kept himself so apart from the world, why he’d showed signs even as he became reacquainted with his neighbors that he half expected some disaster to befall him every time he mingled in society. After what his aunt had done to him, he was afraid to trust anyone, even himself.

For David’s sake, she smothered her outrage enough to keep her voice level. “But would you have known what you were doing at thirteen or fourteen if you hadn’t started down that path at eleven? Would you have pushed her to meet with you at fifteen if she hadn’t already stolen away with you before?”

He raked a hand through his black hair. “I don’t know. Possibly. Certainly she had nothing to do with the mistresses I took afterward, or the whores I turned to in between.”

Rosalie blanched but stood her ground. “How old were you then?”

“I don’t know. Fifteen, I suppose, my first time with a whore. Nineteen when I first set up a mistress.”

“Nineteen doesn’t sound so terribly young to me. I’m not saying there’s anything laudable about it, mind you, but after all, some young people are married at that age. And at fifteen, you already had years of experience behind you. You must have been a shockingly knowing fifteen.”

“Yes.” Wearing an unhappy look, he paced past her. “I was.”

“Then I ask you again—do you think you would have behaved as you did if your aunt hadn’t set you on that path when you were still only a child?”

He dropped into the chair behind his desk and, leaning forward, buried his face in his hands. “I don’t know. I can’t answer that question.”

Rosalie stood. She went around the broad mahogany desk and set a hand on his shoulder. For once, he didn’t flinch or pull away.

She gazed down at his dark head, an ache in her throat. “David, you’ve suffered through things in your life no human being should have to go through, at a time when you had no family or friends to turn to. You’ve kept your distance from society, not for your own sake, but for society’s. And you were kind to me when you had no obligation to be so, merely because I was in need.” She drew her fingers through his hair where it curled gently against his collar. “You may not be able to answer the question, but I can. I’m certain you would never have done those things if you’d been allowed to enjoy a normal childhood.”

“But she was my aunt. She was a married woman. My uncle’s wife.”

“She knew that as well as you did. Better, I should think, given that she was the adult.”

He sighed, still with his face buried in his hands. “I’ve done such shameful things in my life, Rosalie—selfish, dishonorable things. I don’t want to be the kind of man who does those things anymore. I don’t want to give you a disgust of me.”

She caressed his neck. “Do you love me?”

He turned in his chair and wrapped his arms around her, his face against the loose folds of her nightgown. “I do love you, Rosalie. I love you so much it scares me.”

She’d known—she’d hoped she’d known—the answer even before he spoke it, but just the same his words brought a deep, abiding joy. That inner voice inside her had been right after all, the voice that had told her on board the
Neptune’s
Fancy
to accept his marriage proposal, however extraordinary and unexpected it had been. She stroked his hair. “Then why should your future be anything like your past? And how could anything you do give me a disgust of you?”

He was silent for a time, his arms around her tightly. “I’m afraid of what might happen,” he said at last. “I’m afraid I’ll hurt you, betray you.”

“You could hurt me, David. Any two people who love each other have the capability to hurt. But if you do, I’ll get through it. I lost my mother and my father, and I survived those things. I’m willing to take the chance.”

He shook his head. “It’s more than that. I feel so burdened by everything I’ve done wrong in my life. When I look at you, I see goodness, and it makes me want to hide. I can’t face you, not honestly, not knowing what I am. I don’t want to drag you down to my level.”

“David, when I look at you, I see goodness, too.” At his disbelieving grunt, she insisted, “I do. Only, it’s goodness that was taken advantage of, and lost its way for a time.”

“But I’ve done so many things in my life I regret. I’ve lusted, I’ve lied, I’ve done the kind of degrading, meaningless acts that left me empty inside. Even when I knew a thing was wrong, somehow I couldn’t keep from doing it just the same.”

“‘For the good that I would I do not: but the evil which I would not, that I do,’” she quoted.

He looked up. “Yes. Yes, that’s it exactly.”

She smiled and brushed his hair back off his forehead. “You do know who wrote that, don’t you, David? Saint Paul. Even a saint can have a guilty conscience.”

He groaned and closed his eyes. “God, I love you so much.”

“And I love you, too, David—mistakes and all.”

They stood like that for some time, David’s face against her nightclothes, his arms holding her tightly. She no longer felt like an unsophisticated child. If anything, she felt like the adult, the grown-up, the one with the clearer view of the world.

And with that clearer view came a realization. Her old idea of making herself indispensable had been rather naive—though good deeds and a cheerful outlook could contribute to a satisfying life, happiness wasn’t a matter of constantly catering to others. That kind of indispensability was of only temporary value, the fleeting usefulness of a moment. No, it was a matter of finding her place in the world, of being important just for being herself, the way she had become important now to David. She didn’t have to constantly prove her own worth, because she could see it mirrored in her husband’s eyes every time he looked at her.

He laughed humorlessly into her skirts. “I don’t want to let you go.”

“Come to bed with me, then. Just to sleep, I mean. Let’s spend the night together.”

He looked up at her, a gleam of hope in his eyes. “Yes.” He nodded slowly. “Yes, I’d like that.”

Chapter Twenty

There is some soul of goodness in things evil,
Would men observingly distil it out.

—
William Shakespeare

David lay beside Rosalie, listening to the soft rhythm of her breathing. She’d drifted from drowsy conversation into boneless slumber only seconds after he’d slipped into bed beside her.
Thou
quiet
soul
,
sleep
thou
a
quiet
sleep
, he recited to himself, knowing it would take far longer for his own churning thoughts to calm.

He had to admit, he did feel different than before—lighter, somehow, as if a crushing burden had been lifted from his shoulders. Perhaps confession really was good for the soul.

Beside him, Rosalie rolled over with a gentle sigh. She looked so soft in sleep, the fine lawn of her nightgown molding to the high, round curves of her breasts. He gazed wistfully at her face. Thank God she hadn’t fled the house in horror when he’d told her the truth. He’d given her more than enough reason to leave him, but after the initial shock, she’d responded with remarkable understanding. Her cousin had told him she possessed a good heart, but
good
didn’t do her justice.

Was it mere self-delusion to wonder whether Rosalie could be right about his tangled relationship with Celeste? For years, recalling his liaison with his aunt had brought on a shame so powerful it bordered on nausea. He’d been certain anyone who learned of his past would instantly brand him a monster. Was it really possible that, looking at the affair through the prism of a guilty conscience, he’d seen a distorted version of it? Certainly Rosalie had viewed the events in a different light.

He sighed. That was wishful thinking, wasn’t it? How could he doubt his own guilt? The whole sordid mess had been his idea, and he could hardly deny he’d found physical gratification in the things he’d done with Celeste.
To
Celeste. She’d often observed, marveling at his chronic state of arousal,
My
,
but
you’re
eager
. It had gone beyond the physical, too. He’d craved her attention and affection every bit as much.

Then again, he could remember a time, long ago, when thinking of his aunt in a sexual way had seemed alien and disturbing. In the earliest days of their relationship, he’d felt only confusion and uncertainty.

The first such day he could remember had come only a year or so after his father’s suicide. He was not quite eleven years old, and he and Celeste were sitting together in his room with the door half-open, sharing one of their early heart-to-heart talks. He was telling her the little he knew about his mother—how his father had first spotted her at church, appearing and disappearing like a vision. Like the prince with the glass slipper searching for Cinderella, David’s father had made inquiries left and right to learn her name.

As David talked, Celeste watched his face with a rapt expression, nodding slowly. He was so lost in his own story—his father’s search, his parents’ first meeting, their whirlwind courtship—he hardly noticed how quiet his aunt had become. He all but forgot she was there, in fact. Then, unexpectedly, she reached out and set an affectionate hand on his thigh—alarmingly high on his thigh. He might even have called it his groin.

The gesture so shocked him that he broke off his story and froze, openmouthed, alarm bells sounding in his head.

Immediately Celeste’s whole demeanor changed. She snatched her hand away, her attentive gaze replaced in a flash by an airy, offhand laugh. “Goodness, David, you’re looking at me so strangely! Whatever is going through that head of yours?”

What, indeed? Everything about her manner proclaimed the gesture innocent. Of course his aunt hadn’t meant anything untoward. It had been a simple mistake on her part, a thoughtless clumsiness. She’d merely failed to notice where she was putting her hand.

With the realization, his shock changed in an instant to scalding embarrassment. Thank heavens he hadn’t objected! He could only imagine how mortifying such an overreaction would have been for both of them, implying she’d
meant
to touch him that way. He had no idea why he’d supposed she would do such a thing intentionally. He didn’t normally jump to wild conclusions.

And so rather than worrying about his aunt’s gesture, he worried instead about the inappropriateness of his own alarm.

But he experienced that same sense of alarm again only a week later, outdoors beside the ornamental pond. Escaping a mathematics lesson with his tutor, he’d slipped out into the warm July sunshine, planning to spend an hour or so catching tadpoles with a net. He’d just removed his coat and was rolling his shirtsleeves to his elbows when his aunt emerged from the house, carrying her sketchbook.

David was happy to see her, the only person in his life who evinced any real pleasure in spending time with him. Spotting him, Celeste broke into a bright smile and crossed the lawn to join him by the pond. She seated herself nearby on a large, flat rock, and they soon fell into one of their rambling, comfortable talks.

Nothing about the way their conversation began that day held the least hint of wrongdoing. Rather, David talked about his studies, laughingly relating the mistake he’d made that morning while polishing his French with his tutor. Upon completing the essay he’d been assigned, instead of telling his tutor
J’ai
terminé
, I have finished, he’d mistakenly said
Je
suis
terminé
, I am dead. As he told the story, he glanced over his shoulder at Celeste, grinning—only to find her regarding him with a strange, appraising stare.

It was such an odd look—something in her gaze reminded him of a cat stalking its prey. With her eyes fixed on his face, she said in a low, throbbing voice, “How handsome you look with your coat off, David.”

His jaw went slack. The words themselves might have been spoken by any fond mother to a son, but—well, it was the
way
she said them. No one had ever spoken to him before in such a caressing tone of voice. It reminded him of a play he’d seen, in which a half-dressed Cleopatra had cast some fatal spell on the hapless Julius Caesar.

His heart drumming, he stared at her in consternation.

And, once again, her whole demeanor changed in a flash. “Oh, my heavens!” she said with a trill of laughter, switching from alarming familiarity to bright, breezy innocence. “How empty-headed I must sound! I was woolgathering, I’m afraid—thinking of my first stay in Paris. Do go back to what you were doing, David dear. I’m nearly finished with my sketch.”

“You were thinking of—of Paris?”

“Yes, back in the days when practically the only French I recognized was that old motto,
Honi
soit
qui
mal
y
pense
—shame on him who thinks evil of it. What a green girl I was in those days.”

Frowning in confusion, David turned back to his search for tadpoles. Once again, he’d mistaken his aunt’s motives entirely. Her tone had had nothing to do with him, apparently, but rather with some happy memory from her girlhood.
Shame
on
him
who
thinks
evil
of
it
, indeed.

All that day he wondered what was wrong with him that he’d begun to react so oddly to perfectly harmless actions. There was nothing evil or even particularly over-familiar about his aunt Celeste. She was the warmest person he knew—warm to everyone. Why would such dark, groundless suspicions suddenly pop into his head?

Now, lying beside Rosalie, David questioned whether he’d been wrong to discount those early instincts. Those two encounters with Celeste had been only the first of many such bewildering exchanges, and over the ensuing weeks and months, it seemed he was always making mistakes, always leaping to wild conclusions. More and more, he came to doubt his own judgment. As his confusion grew, he learned not to put up his guard too quickly, but instead to take his cues from his aunt’s demeanor. Gradually, the bounds of propriety blurred, until he found it difficult to distinguish right from wrong anymore.

Before long, they were talking about things he’d never thought to share with anyone—whether he liked the oil painting of half-dressed nymphs hanging in the state dining room, what he wore to bed on warm summer nights, whether any of the chambermaids had ever walked in on him when he was in the bath. Most of their conversations left him feeling uncomfortable and vaguely guilty, though he wasn’t entirely sure why. Perhaps it was that, no matter what the topic, he always seemed to be the one making the embarrassing confessions, while Celeste simply listened and offered her usual ready sympathy.

David had believed it was all innocent on his aunt’s side—the touches, the looks, the increasingly personal conversation. After all, he was the one making the private admissions. He’d assumed the disquieting intimacy that had grown with each such exchange was his fault, the product of his own sick brain. But now...now he wasn’t so sure.

He stopped himself. What was he doing, questioning Celeste’s motives, doubting his own guilt? True, those early encounters had been ambiguous enough, but what of the first time he’d intentionally touched his aunt? What of the first time he’d pictured her in a sexual way? He could hardly deny that had been his idea. He’d known it was wrong, but he’d done it just the same.

He’d had the first such disturbing impulse just before his twelfth birthday, when Celeste had been at Lyningthorp almost two years. He’d still possessed no very clear notion what sexual relations involved, but for some weeks, he’d been growing increasingly aware of strange feelings of curiosity and an unnatural excitement whenever his aunt turned her attention his way.

The two of them were sitting together that day on a bench nestled against the garden wall, passing
The
Poetical
Works
of
John
Milton
back and forth, taking turns reading aloud. David could still remember every detail of the scene with perfect clarity—the cool stone bench, Celeste’s blue cambric gown, the linen bandeau she wore threaded through her light brown hair, the book’s morocco binding, the faint breeze that stirred the ivy leaves behind them.

He finished reading a passage and handed the book to Celeste to take her turn. She’d barely begun to read when she’d given the book back to him, however, saying, “My voice is tired, David. You take over for a while.”

He was only mildly surprised and certainly willing enough. Setting the book in his lap once more, he turned the page—only to discover an illustration that made his breath catch.

It was an engraving of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, and both were completely nude. Adam stood posed in a way that concealed the most private parts of his body, leaning over Eve, touching her hand, but Eve—Eve was sleeping on the ground, one milky thigh and both bare breasts exposed. Her long locks tumbled loosely around her shoulders, and she looked so wantonly, carnally beautiful, so soft and invitingly feminine, David felt as guiltily aware of her nakedness as if he’d personally tasted the forbidden fruit. For a few protracted seconds, he simply sat and stared.

At last he dragged his eyes away, to read the next several pages with his pulse racing. After he passed the book back to Celeste, he sat transfixed, the vision still floating before his eyes—Eve’s lush, fascinating curves, her long blond hair, her smooth skin. He’d never before seen a man and a woman pictured together without their clothes. He felt guilt-ridden, relieved, secretly triumphant, and all because Celeste hadn’t noticed the illustration or his reaction to it. He found it difficult to concentrate, wondering if all women looked that way. Wondering if
she
looked that way.

His twelfth birthday came and went. His nights grew increasingly restless, increasingly wakeful. On one such night, hoping to find a deck of cards to occupy him until he grew tired enough to sleep, he rose and drew on his dressing gown. Taking up a single candle, he slipped out of his room and made his way downstairs, prowling through Lyningthorp’s dark, echoing corridors on silent feet.

In the library doorway, he unexpectedly came face-to-face with his aunt.

“Oh!” She clutched a hand to her breast, the light from his candle illuminating the pale oval of her face. “David! My, but you gave me a turn!”

“I’m sorry—” he said, equally startled.

But she interrupted him, seizing his free hand and pressing it to her bosom. “Feel how my heart is pounding. Goodness, you frightened me half out of my wits!”

He was tall for his age, and Celeste was a small woman, so they stood virtually eye to eye. In a flash he realized how close they were to each other, and how alone in the dark, sleeping house. His aunt was wearing nothing but a thin nightgown and wrapper, her hair streaming loose down her back. What if his uncle Frederick—