Sea of Secrets: A Novel of Victorian Romantic Suspense by Amanda DeWees
Authors: Amanda DeWees
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sound: a slow, steady beat overhead.
It was the footsteps I had heard on my first night at Ellsmere.
Their pace was unnervingly regular, like a metronome, and they wandered from directly over my chamber to a space more distant, so that at times they almost died out. The sound was muffled but carried a strange gravity with it, as if an unknown sentry walked the roof over the rooms of sleepers.
I succeeded in lighting my candle, which flickered in the draft from the windows, and slipped out of bed. My boots lay on the carpet where I had cast them off, and I stepped into them hastily; in a moment more I had wrapped myself in my old black cape and shut the door of my room behind me. The candle flame burned steadily in the relative stillness of the corridor, and by its light I looked around to see that no one else was there. The hall beyond was a wall of darkness, and the only sound came from above, the regular drumbeat of the walker’s footsteps. I remembered the duchess’s concern for me, alone on the topmost floor; had she known of the footsteps and feared for me to hear them? Or was I the only one to hear them because of the isolation of my room?
Whatever the reason, no one else had emerged to join me in seeking their source. Shielding the candle with my hand, I made my way quickly to the end of the corridor and the unassuming door that gave on the tower stairs: at the next landing was the door to the roof, and I supposed that if one continued to climb one would emerge atop the tower, but I had never ventured that far. I opened the door and stepped into the stairwell, and the sudden guttering of my candle flame told me that the door to the roof was already open. Whatever—whoever—walked above must have taken this way before me. For some reason, this was more unnerving than the sound of the footsteps itself, the knowledge that the unknown had crept unheard past my door.
Carefully, holding up my hem so that I would not trip on the narrow stair, I ascended to the roof. When I emerged into the night air the wind immediately snuffed my candle, but at once I saw another light: someone had placed a lamp near the parapet, and it cast a warm circle that reached almost to where I stood. Still I waited, looking for the source of the sound I had heard. I could hear the footsteps, sounding distant now, and I moved forward slowly, trying to peer around the chimneys that blocked my view.
The cloaked figure emerged so suddenly that I fell back a step. He was at the other end of the roof but approaching with that steady gait whose sound I had come to know so well. He—for he had the height, and his shoulders the breadth, of a man—came steadily closer, and in anticipation of seeing his face I moved toward him, until the lamplight lapped the hem of my cloak.
Immediately he drew up short. For a moment we both stood motionless. Then, so swiftly I had no time to move, he closed the space between us in four long strides and seized me by the arm. His grip was so strong that I cried out, but he paid me no heed, his other hand fumbling for my hood, which he flung back from my face. The light was behind him, so I could see nothing of his face, and he must have seen but little of mine, for he pulled me roughly toward the place where the lamp stood. In a moment we could see each other, and he let my arm drop.
“Oh,” said the duke, “it’s you,” and three words have never been steeped with such bitter disappointment.
Rubbing my arm where he had grasped me, I reflected that his company that evening had hardly been pleasant enough that he could afford to criticize mine, but I said only, “What are you doing up here?”
“That is no concern of yours.”
“It is my concern when your pacing keeps me awake,” I said—unjustly, but I was past caring about fairness.
He ignored this. Now that he had seen who I was, he evidently had no use for me: he had turned his back and stood staring out over the darkened landscape toward the sea.
It was the footsteps I had heard on my first night at Ellsmere.
Their pace was unnervingly regular, like a metronome, and they wandered from directly over my chamber to a space more distant, so that at times they almost died out. The sound was muffled but carried a strange gravity with it, as if an unknown sentry walked the roof over the rooms of sleepers.
I succeeded in lighting my candle, which flickered in the draft from the windows, and slipped out of bed. My boots lay on the carpet where I had cast them off, and I stepped into them hastily; in a moment more I had wrapped myself in my old black cape and shut the door of my room behind me. The candle flame burned steadily in the relative stillness of the corridor, and by its light I looked around to see that no one else was there. The hall beyond was a wall of darkness, and the only sound came from above, the regular drumbeat of the walker’s footsteps. I remembered the duchess’s concern for me, alone on the topmost floor; had she known of the footsteps and feared for me to hear them? Or was I the only one to hear them because of the isolation of my room?
Whatever the reason, no one else had emerged to join me in seeking their source. Shielding the candle with my hand, I made my way quickly to the end of the corridor and the unassuming door that gave on the tower stairs: at the next landing was the door to the roof, and I supposed that if one continued to climb one would emerge atop the tower, but I had never ventured that far. I opened the door and stepped into the stairwell, and the sudden guttering of my candle flame told me that the door to the roof was already open. Whatever—whoever—walked above must have taken this way before me. For some reason, this was more unnerving than the sound of the footsteps itself, the knowledge that the unknown had crept unheard past my door.
Carefully, holding up my hem so that I would not trip on the narrow stair, I ascended to the roof. When I emerged into the night air the wind immediately snuffed my candle, but at once I saw another light: someone had placed a lamp near the parapet, and it cast a warm circle that reached almost to where I stood. Still I waited, looking for the source of the sound I had heard. I could hear the footsteps, sounding distant now, and I moved forward slowly, trying to peer around the chimneys that blocked my view.
The cloaked figure emerged so suddenly that I fell back a step. He was at the other end of the roof but approaching with that steady gait whose sound I had come to know so well. He—for he had the height, and his shoulders the breadth, of a man—came steadily closer, and in anticipation of seeing his face I moved toward him, until the lamplight lapped the hem of my cloak.
Immediately he drew up short. For a moment we both stood motionless. Then, so swiftly I had no time to move, he closed the space between us in four long strides and seized me by the arm. His grip was so strong that I cried out, but he paid me no heed, his other hand fumbling for my hood, which he flung back from my face. The light was behind him, so I could see nothing of his face, and he must have seen but little of mine, for he pulled me roughly toward the place where the lamp stood. In a moment we could see each other, and he let my arm drop.
“Oh,” said the duke, “it’s you,” and three words have never been steeped with such bitter disappointment.
Rubbing my arm where he had grasped me, I reflected that his company that evening had hardly been pleasant enough that he could afford to criticize mine, but I said only, “What are you doing up here?”
“That is no concern of yours.”
“It is my concern when your pacing keeps me awake,” I said—unjustly, but I was past caring about fairness.
He ignored this. Now that he had seen who I was, he evidently had no use for me: he had turned his back and stood staring out over the darkened landscape toward the sea.
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