Mary Balogh: Secrets of the Heart

"Not by tugging at the bit and digging in your knees that way, Fan," Sarah heard the man say. "You have to sit him and hold the reins in such a way that he knows you are in charge."

She liked his voice. It was low and calm, with no trace of either impatience or condescension.

After the group rode away, Winston climbed back up the slope and told her that the strangers were the Duke of Cranwell and his sister.

"Lucky dog!" he added. "Finished university a few months ago; succeeded to the title and fabulous wealth two years ago. Off on the Grand Tour next month. Some people have all the good fortune."

"You can't complain, Win," she said soothingly. "You have a good home, and Uncle Randolph is going to send you to Cambridge next year. And he has said that if you do well at your studies he will see about letting you travel Europe. And one day you will have the title. And you do have both a mama and a papa." This last was said somewhat wistfully.

He leaned across and covered one of her hands with his. "Don't get mopey, Sarah," he said. "They love you too, you know, and you have Graham and me for brothers. You like that, don't you?"

She smiled gratefully as he squeezed her hand and jumped to his feet again. For several months after that Sarah's Prince Charming had had a slight, graceful figure, steady, unsmiling eyes, and a calm, low-pitched voice.

It would have been better far if she had not seen the Duke of Cranwell again. Perhaps the other things that had happened would have been a little easier to bear. Perhaps. It would also have been better if she had never set eyes on Winston Bowen. But it was useless to think in such a way. As well to think it would have been better if she had never been born or if her parents had never met. Unfortunately, one had to cope with life as it was presented to one. Really there seemed to be very few free choices.

She had another very good reason for remembering that occasion when she had first seen George. It was only a few days later that Graham had killed Albert Stanfield. The memory could still make her head spin and her stomach churn. Graham was three years younger than she and feebleminded. Mama had died giving birth to him and something must have happened during the birth, because Gray was never normal. As a baby he had been unusually placid, smiling at anyone who bent over his crib, laughing helplessly at any antic that was performed for his amusement. It was only as he grew older that his family became unwillingly aware that this fair-haired, pretty little child was not of normal intelligence.

Sarah was particularly fond of him. And who could not be? He was a sunny-natured, affectionate child who liked to hang on her arm, stroking her hand lovingly and gazing worshipfully into her face. His mood rarely changed. Only occasionally, when he was teased as a half-wit, did he become agitated. And very rarely, if there was no one around to get rid of the teaser, he would fly into a frustrated rage and throw himself headfirst into a fight, fists clenched and teeth gnashing.

Sarah had not been with him on that particular day. She was helping her aunt plan a dinner party for her uncle's birthday. Graham had gone off to pick wildflowers and was gone for several hours. When he came home, he was very agitated and hid in a corner of his bedchamber, his face pressed to the wall, while Sarah tried to coax from him the reason for his withdrawal. He said nothing, only whimpered for hours.

And then the body of Albert Stanfield, twelve-year-old son of a neighbor's gamekeeper, had been discovered at the foot of a quarry. The boy had fallen thirty feet. His body was cut and bruised, presumably from the jagged stones that protruded from the quarry walls.

"Were you with Albert, Gray?" Sarah asked her brother gently.

"No, Sare," he said. "Gray picked flowers. Pretty flowers."

"Did he slip and fall, Gray?"

"Pretty flowers for Sare," he replied, looking at her with anxious, wary eyes.

"Come, sweetheart," she said, "let me put my arms around you. Did you try to save him, Gray, and you could not? You must not blame yourself."

"Gray don't want to play with that boy no more," he said, coming to nestle within Sarah's arms and gazing earnestly into her eyes. "Nasty boy, Sare."

"Was he?" she said, smoothing back a soft curl from his forehead and kissing his brow. "You don't have to play with him again, sweetheart."

And she had set herself to spend all her time with him for the coming weeks, intent on smoothing away the memories that troubled his dreams and sometimes brought a puzzled frown to his face in the daytime.

Poor Graham had been questioned interminably, it seemed, for several days, but of course it was pointless to try to coax a coherent story from him. He clearly had been present at the time of the accident, but equally clearly he did not know what had happened.

It was Win who finally wormed the truth out of the boy. Gray did not like his cousin; he was frightened of him. But that was understandable. Win was six years older than Graham and a confident, virile young man. The child was overawed. Win's persistent but not unkindly questioning drew from the child an admission that he had hit Albert.

It was officially concluded that Albert had fallen accidentally to his death. There was never any suggestion that foul play was suspected.

But after the funeral, Win took Sarah aside one day and told her the full truth very gently. He had been out walking himself and had been drawn toward the sound of loudly quarreling voices. He had arrived in time to see Graham push Albert over the edge of the quarry. Win had been too late to prevent the disaster.

Why had he said nothing before this? Sarah asked Iiim, wide-eyed with horror.

He directed at her that smile which was very attractive even in those days. "How could I do that to my own cousin?" he asked. "Or to you, Sarah? You know you are like my own sister."

"But if that is what happened, someone should be told," she protested.

"What?" he asked gently. "That Graham is a murderer, Sarah?"

"Murderer!" Her hand crept to her throat. "Don't be absurd, Win. He is a child."

"Child murderers hang in England as well as adults, Sarah," he said, gazing into her eyes.

She shook her head.

His hand covered hers reassuringly. "You and I know Gray is not quite normal," he said. "It would be a terrible injustice for him to swing, Sarah. But it would happen, you know. I am going to keep my mouth shut. You need have no fear. It will be our secret. No one else knows or ever will."

She grasped his hand and pressed it to her lips. "Win," she said. "Oh, my dear Win. How wonderful you are! How will I ever be able to show you my gratitude?"

She had been blind enough over the next few years not even to realize how he made use of their secret. She lent him money that was never repaid, ran errands, was constantly at his beck and call. And she had done it all gladly, worshipfully almost. She had never been conscious of serving him only to buy his silence.

She really had been as fond of Winston as of a brother. And proud, too. He had been an extraordinarily handsome boy as far back as she could remember, with his blond hair, hazel eyes, and white teeth, and with his laughter-filled face. As they both grew older, Sarah had become aware that almost every girl for miles around sighed for one smile from him. And she had become a little conceited about the fact that he was frequently in her company. She had enjoyed feeling envious female eyes on her as they entered church together on a Sunday or walked down the village street together. Foolish, foolish girl.

When she was sixteen and Winston was home from university for the summer, he had started to touch her. She hardly noticed at first. They had always been close. He had often held her hand or lifted her down from fences or tickled her until she was weak with laughter. But these touches were different and made her uncomfortable. He came up behind her once when she was sitting on a stile reading a book and put his arms around her waist. She smiled and put her head back on his shoulder. She expected him to pitch her backward. Instead he held her waist with one arm and explored the contours of both breasts with the other hand.