The Secret Pearl(119)

He had paid his dues for a life of incredible privilege and for a childhood of wonderful security. He would be happy again and happy forever. He would open the oyster shell and find the pearl within.

He opened his eyes and became aware of his surroundings when her head touched his shoulder. She was breathing deeply and evenly. He turned his head very slowly so as not to wake her and rested his cheek against her soft curls. And he breathed in the scent of her. Their hands were still clasped together.

He closed his eyes again.


WROXFORD WAS NOT QUITE a town. It was a large village. Darkness had begun to fall when they arrived there, and the churchyard was quite large. It was altogether possible that they had just missed finding the correct tombstone in the half-light, the Duke of Ridgeway reassured her after they had searched without success. Or perhaps there was no tombstone yet. They should ask at the vicarage.

But the vicar was from home, at the bedside of a sick parishioner, his wife explained. She had no knowledge of such a grave. There were Hobsons in the churchyard, yes, but the last to be buried there must be old Bessie Hobson, all of seven or eight years before. Certainly there had been none buried there in the past six months. There had been only one funeral in that time, and that had certainly not been a Hobson.

“This man was valet to Lord Brocklehurst of Heron House,” the duke explained. “His father was a butcher here at one time, I understand.”

The vicar’s wife nodded. “That would be Mr. Maurice Hobson, sir,” she said. “He lives on the hill now.” She pointed to the east. “A redbrick house, sir, with roses in the front garden.”

“How strange,” Fleur said as they turned away, the vicar’s wife standing politely on the doorstep to see them on their way. “Mollie was quite sure it was Wroxford, and it seems to be the right place. His father does live here. But he was not buried here? I must speak with Mr. Hobson. It is not too late, is it?”

“I’m afraid so,” he said. “We will put up at the inn for tonight and I will call on Mr. Hobson in the morning. Alone, Fleur. I don’t think it advisable for you to meet him.”

“But I cannot expect you to do that for me,” she said.

“I will do it nevertheless,” he said, handing her back into his carriage. “And for tonight you are Miss Kent, my sister.”

“Yes,” she said. “Thank you. But what can it mean? Matthew did not have Daniel bury Hobson because he wanted to bring him home. But this is home, and the burial was not here.”

“I am sure there is a perfectly good explanation,” he said, taking her hand in his again. “I shall discover what it is tomorrow. Are you hungry? And don’t say no. I am, and I hate eating alone.”

“A little,” she said. She smiled quickly at him. “Oh, not very. But what can be the meaning of it? Have we come all this way for nothing? Is this business never to have an ending?”

“Tomorrow,” he said. “For the rest of this evening you are going to sit and watch me eat, and eat a little yourself, and tell me all about your early childhood. I entertained you this afternoon before we both fell asleep. Now it is your turn.”

“There is not much to tell,” she said. “My parents died when I was eight. I cannot remember a great deal.”

“More than you think, I will wager,” he said. “Here we are. I hope this inn offers somewhat better accommodation than the one in your village. And better food too.”

They were given small rooms next to each other. There was nothing fancy about either one, but the inn did boast a private parlor, which the duke engaged for the evening. There were about a dozen men in the public taproom.

She should feel embarrassed, Fleur thought. She was alone during the darkness of the evening with the Duke of Ridgeway. They were to sleep in adjoining rooms in a village inn. They had been alone together all day, their hands clasped for most of the time. And she had woken up at some time late in the afternoon with her head on his shoulder.

She had removed it carefully, hoping that he was asleep too and would not know. But he had been quietly looking out of the window. Her hand had still been in his. And he had turned his head to smile at her. She had smiled back a little shamefaced but not nearly as confused as she might have expected to be.

It was almost as if, she thought, when they had left Heron House they had also left behind them the world and normal life and normal propriety. Almost as if they had made a tacit and mutual agreement to live these two days as if they were the only two days left in life.

And in a way they were. By the next night they would be back at Heron House. The morning after, he would leave and she would never see or hear from him again.