Sea of Secrets: A Novel of Victorian Romantic Suspense by Amanda DeWees Page A

drifted gently through my mind, and all of them assured me that I was welcome, that I would be able to be happy here. The first day of my new life had been a promising one. I had almost drifted off to sleep when a hollow noise gradually came to my ears. Although I waited for it to cease, it persisted, refusing to be ignored, until I was wakeful again with annoyance.
    A steady, regular beat. Someone was pacing the floor of the room above. Evidently, I decided, a servant was having trouble sleeping, and was marching like a sentry back and forth… except (and the memory made my eyes snap open, and I sat up in bed), except there was no room over mine. I was on the top floor of the house, and why would any human being be walking the roof at night?
    * * *
    When I woke in the morning I did not spare more than a moment’s thought for the footsteps. Doubtless there was some reasonable explanation for them, and the mystery had not kept me awake for long. In any case my mind was too full of anticipation to let me dwell long on anything else. As soon as I was awake I knew I would be able to think of nothing else until I had gone down to the shore. I needed to see the ocean.
    Quickly, I donned one of my old dresses—sparing a moment to be glad that it buttoned up the front, so that I had no need of assistance—and twined my hair into a hasty braid. On the stairs I encountered a maid and asked directions of her. Once she had told me the way, I ran down the great stair and through the front door, opened for me by a footman too well trained to betray surprise.
    The morning was cold but fair, the path up to the cliffs easily found: it was rough but wide and well trod (by Herron?) and not steep enough to daunt someone accustomed to running up and down the stairs in a London row house. Not for the first time in my life I was glad that I wore no stays to hamper me; I was scarcely breathing hard when I crested the hill and stood looking down on the sea.
    The cliffs stretched to my right in a bleak, jagged line, the uneven rocky faces sometimes falling sheer to the sea below, which seethed as if in anger around great boulders on the shore. To my left the cliffs gentled and smoothed, becoming a ribbon of soft green slopes. The morning sun was dazzling on the sea, which flung up sheets of froth as it ceaselessly beat itself against the shore far below. With a thrill of excitement I found that an opening between two crags led to a narrow footpath down to the strand. I began to pick my way down, going slowly because of the incline and the multitude of pebbles that might cause a more precipitous descent than I wished.
    The breeze freshened as I descended, until my hair had fought loose from its clumsy braid and was slapping gaily around my face. As I came nearer to the surf, its noise also increased until the sound was overwhelming. The roar rose and ebbed, but was never allowed to quiet before another great wave hurled itself onto the rocky shore.
    Uncertain, I stood where the footpath ended at the rock-strewn beach, not eager to climb over the crags that met me. The volume of sound and the fierce energy and motion of the surf were formidable, almost overpowering, and abruptly I felt small and feeble in the face of this element. This was far from the comforting, lulling ocean I had imagined, the place of solace and refuge I had sought. Instead it was a battering force, unruly and violent. I hesitated only a moment, then turned swiftly back to the path, almost colliding with someone who stood behind me.
    “Watch where you’re going,” he said rudely. “You will have to pick your way with a great deal more care if you plan to stroll around the cliffs.”
    I looked up at a dark man. His eyes were in shadow, untouched by the still tentative light, but the rising sun picked out the angle of his face in a sharp gold sliver. Unaccountably, he was in shirt sleeves, even though I was shivering in my woolen dress. He must have followed me closely,