Miss Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
18 April 1903
Dearest Addie,
I received your letter with gladness, but read it with mounting concern. I cannot begin to fathom the horror of your experience--and for these recollections to come on you so suddenly! I also know that you have experienced much disappointment in regard to your suitors, and I fear this revelation regarding Mr. Rousseau might be, in your mind, the worst of the lot. However I may dislike him for his past treatment of you, it would not do to show him less than gratitude for the service he has rendered. But you do not owe him more than that, Addie, and I beg you to remember it. Even wrapped up in my own concerns as I have been--how selfish and indulgent!--I cannot repress the curiosity that your letter has inspired in me. It seems to me that Mr. Rousseau has been suing for your favor as long as he has known you, yet he held back his part in your rescue for some time ... what can he mean by it?
I have news for you as well, and it is perhaps not less puzzling than your own, if for altogether different reasons. Stuart came calling for me the day after I left him in Green Park, and I baldly refused to receive him. Dad was rather concerned, Mum was abidingly patient, and Peter--as far as I know--was entirely ignorant of my situation. Stuart came to apply for an audience with me every day for a week, and I dutifully refused him each time, and was quite miserable for my pains. Mum was persistent in inviting my confidence, and at length I explained to her all that was troubling me. I did not enter into details, of course, not wishing to indict Stuart to the point that his reputation might be harmed, but I expressed the painful conclusion that I had been intentionally deceived. It was not difficult for her to convince me to speak with Stuart, and allow him the opportunity to acquit himself. I am not unaware of the irony which attended my interventions on his behalf--why should I care for the maintenance of his good name if I truly believed him to be unworthy of it? The natural conclusion is that I was quite as eager as Mum to have the lie explained away, and so, having gained the patronage of my mother for what had been my dearest wish all along, I dressed for the outdoors the following morning and prepared to receive Stuart at last. I was not keen to have my accusations overheard by any other member of the household, and so I asked Stuart to walk out with me, and he obliged. I was painfully reminded of the last time we had walked thus together, and I could not bring myself to accept the arm he offered as we started out toward the park. I had decided to allow Stuart a chance to excuse himself, but hadn't any idea of how to begin. At length, as we rounded the pond, Stuart spoke. "How have I offended you, Maisie?" His voice was gentle, and his every gesture careful and subdued.
"I do not fancy being lied to, Mr. Hill."
"But what lie do you speak of?" Had Stuart been innocent, this query might have passed as his attempt to discover the root of my confusion, and thereby to correct my understanding. As I knew he was quite guilty, it suddenly occurred to me that he had likely been party to more deceit than this, and wished to discern which untruth I had uncovered so as to avoid revealing any of the others by misstep. This, I confess, spurred my anger and prompted me to speak with more passion than I had intended.
"Do not pretend with me, Stuart! Do you deny knowing that your friend Mr. Collins was dead long before you supposedly met him at Portobello Market?"
At this, Stuart ceased walking. I do not know that I have ever seen him at such a loss. He covered his face with one hand for a moment, then seemed to come to a decision. "I do not deny it." I had not expected this, Addie. I had been sure he would attempt to cover his lie with yet more prevarication. But I was glad, in a perverse sort of way. My anger had been vindicated, and I could unleash it on its object without scruple. I no longer cared who overheard. "Then what were you about, Stuart? If you knew the man was not Mr. Collins, why did you address him as such?"
"'Collins' is what he called himself. I merely played along."
Again, his response staggered me. Was this honesty, then? I looked up at Stuart to find him gazing back at me, his brow creased and his green eyes intense with apparent concern. His right arm twitched slightly toward me as I looked at him, but he seemed to think better of the impulse and clasped his hands firmly behind his back, frowning slightly. "I don't understand you, Stuart. Why would you do such a thing? To what purpose?" Stuart exhaled sharply, smiling grimly as he shook his head. "Maisie, I am sadly unqualified. Or, more probably, you are exceptional. Whatever am I to do with you?" This last was delivered in a rueful tone, but Stuart's smile had lost some of its bitterness, and he reached for my hand as he spoke. I snatched it away from his reach. Indeed! Had he supposed I would be softened by such a cryptic speech? I could only think that he was toying with me again, and it rendered me quite furious. "Mr. Hill, unless you can explain your behaviour to my satisfaction, I have nothing more to say to you." He attempted to tip my chin up to meet his gaze but I swatted his hand away with all the energy of my indignation. It did not help that he met this violence with what could only be described as amusement and admiration, and had the cheek to say, "You are so very irresistible when you are in a temper." I had never slapped a man before, Addie, but I slapped his face with every bit of strength I could muster, and turned to leave him. He caught my arm and I turned back with every intention of slapping him again, but the look on his face stayed my hand. His expression was grave, yet behind the gravity I could just perceive an anguish so well concealed that it could only be genuine. What was Stuart to do with me? Indeed, what was I to do with him? Such a mixture of fury and compassion as I felt must surely have torn me apart and turned all the world topsy-turvy--and yet I remained whole, and the frozen earth beneath my boots was as solid as ever. Stuart released my arm and continued to gaze at me in silence--if he had any inkling of the involuntary sympathy I felt for him at that moment he gave no sign of it. All trace of levity had left him, and his voice was almost too low for me to hear.
"Am I to lose you over this, then?"
Addie, I am ashamed to tell you that I was nearly taken in again. Every instinct I possessed urged me to go to him, to comfort him, to assure him of my continued tender feelings for him. It was exceedingly troubling to discover the extent of the power he held over me, yet it was something much less ominous which checked my highly inappropriate impulses. I had not noticed his approach, absorbed in my own feelings as I had been, but at that moment I was addressed by a passerby who I assumed must have witnessed my assault on Stuart, and I felt my face flush with the heat of embarrassment. The man glanced at Stuart in a wary sort of way, planted himself firmly between us, and spoke earnestly to me. "Has this man harmed you? Shall I escort you home?" I was in no mood to explain myself to a stranger, and opened my lips to speak the words that would send him on his way, when my eyes fell on his face, and I recognized him. He was the very same cadet who had given me the clue to Stuart's undoing--but what coincidence was this? Before I could gather my thoughts, he spoke again, "Miss Bristow? I assure you that you are no longer in danger. If you would like to enter a complaint against this fellow, you have only to give the word." Stuart started at the sound of my name, and seemed to consider the cadet for the first time. After a brief study, however, he proceeded to ignore the cadet, and looked at me in wonder, "Do you know this man, Maisie?" Both men paused to wait for my response, and it was awkward indeed, but I answered that I did. The cadet looked very satisfied, and turned a challenging look on Stuart, who was more than half a head taller than himself. "I am Police Constable James Murphy," he said calmly, "and I advise you to depart at once." A great change was wrought upon Stuart--his face was suddenly alive with incredulity. He looked back and forth between us for a moment before focusing on me, and then asked, "Maisie, is it your wish for me to go?" It occurred to me that if I wished it, Stuart would go, and I was certain that my verbal expression of that wish would signify more to Stuart than it would to P.C. Murphy. Even more distressing was the sure knowledge that I did not want to send Stuart away. So strong was my wish for him to stay that I knew I must be merciless in my decision--the danger was too great. If I allowed myself the smallest modicum of indulgence, I felt sure I should never manage to detach myself from this man who thought it nothing to lie to me. It was not easy--it may in fact have been the most difficult thing I have ever been constrained to do--but I took the constable's offered arm and said, "Yes, Mr. Hill. I think it best you should go. P.C. Murphy will see me home." This accomplishment was not without cost. I could not bring myself to look at Stuart as I spoke, but I risked a glance as he replied. His expression was perfectly composed, his tone distant. He bowed slightly in my direction and said only, "I am at your service, Miss Bristow ," before turning away. I was ashamed that my own eyes had begun to fill with tears, and endeavored to quash the unwelcome emotion stirred up by the sight of Stuart's retreating form. P.C. Murphy seemed to sense that he was not privy to all that had passed between us, but was polite enough not to inquire as he walked me back to the mews. It occurred to me that he seemed to know the way, as I was no use at all and merely allowed him to guide me, and at length I asked him how he had come to find me. "Yes, that. I came to call on you, and your charming mother informed me that you were walking in the park." Dazed as I was by what had just occurred, this struck me as curious. "You ... came to call on me?" He smiled kindly and, as we were coming up on the Italian Gardens, asked if I would like to rest for a moment. I told him that I did, and he guided me to a bench with an excellent view of the fountains. "I must confess that I could not feel satisfied abandoning you in the state in which I saw you last, and here you are a week later, and you seem no better." I must have blushed--I surely felt self-conscious--for he added, "Forgive my familiarity. I should not have mentioned it. It is only that concern for you has guided my actions in coming to call on you--I had wished to find you in better spirits. I hope you are not still upset over the news of your friend? Indeed, I had meant to comfort you by it." I knew I should have felt gratitude toward him, Addie, and I think I did, but that most noble emotion was so greatly eclipsed by the anxiety I felt in regard to Stuart that I was hardly in any condition to do it justice. I said nothing, but smiled weakly at him, and he continued, "The ... gentleman ... who just left us--I have seen him on more than one occasion in Victoria Street. I wish I had taken more notice of him, as he is obviously a person to be monitored. I hope he did not offend you too grievously?" As little as I wished to speak of it, I could not deny the truth of what he suggested, and I steeled myself enough to say, "I am afraid that he did. I have just ended our engagement to be married." P.C. Murphy was understandably taken aback, but did not press for particulars. He merely expressed his regrets for my disappointment, and, as I had risen, offered me his arm and accompanied me home. I did not truly wish it, but I thought it courtesy to ask him to stay for tea. He cordially declined, however, claiming a previous engagement, and expressed the hope that he might be extended another such invitation in future. I was not sorry to see him go, and, ignoring Mum's attempts to question me, fled to my room and remained there until the following morning. I would likely not have roused even then, but for Mum's insistence that a letter had been delivered for me, and her refusal to give it into my possession unless I would wash and dress and come downstairs. Accordingly, I succumbed to her wishes. When she was satisfied she placed the letter on the table before me and excused herself from the dining room. I had hoped wildly,wrongly, that it might be from Stuart, and I was not disappointed.
My dear Maisie,
I am deeply sorry for my light treatment of your concerns yesterday. I was so relieved to discover the cause of your rejection, and to realise that it was of no import, that I allowed myself to approach cheerfulness too soon. Please forgive this error on my part, and know that it was only the sudden removal of the heavy burden of care which I had borne these past seven days which occasioned it. I ought to have exercised better judgment, and given more thought to the fact that your mind was not yet relieved of worry.
When you told me to go ... I admit I was, once again, despondent. It seemed to me that your desire for my absence might be a permanent condition of your heart, and this was not a welcome thought. I realise that I am not yet clear of the danger of losing you. Therefore, I approach what I must tell you next with great trepidation. You asked for a satisfactory explanation of my deception regarding the man whom I led you to believe was Joseph Collins. Maisie, I cannot give it. I can assure you that my actions were necessary and prudent, and that the consequence of my being constrained to deceive you was not entered into lightly on my part. You will remember my plea for forgiveness that very day, and you must believe it was in earnest. However, I can explain no further, and I must ask you to abandon the subject from here and forward. It is not within my power to satisfy you in this matter, and I beg you to grant me grace and forbearance.
If you can find it within your capacity to trust me, Maisie, please make it known. For my part, I shall no longer attempt to displease you with my presence unless you ask for it.
I am, respectfully,
Your obedient servant,
Stuart Hill
Addie, how I wish for your advice and sympathy! It has been a week already since I received this missive, and I have yet to make a reply. I have explained my peculiar weakness when it comes to Stuart, and I very much fear it might take precedence in light of this most eloquent petition for pardon. Why cannot it be simple? My heart is in favor of forgiveness, but my intelligence begs my heart to please refrain from such utter foolishness. How is it that affection for a man can lead to such hostilities within myself? Write with all haste!
Sincerely,
Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London
Letter 35 - Marché aux Fleurs
Miss Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London
10 April 1903
Dearest Maisie,
My dearest of friends, how can I be of any consolation to you? I simply cannot fathom, any more than you can, a reason for Stuart's deceit. I will not feign to know the tribulations of your heart. My words seem of little use at a time such as this. If only I were there with you. You seem so certain all is lost, but if I know Stuart Hill, he shall not give you up so easily. Perhaps there is some tiny shred of goodness to be discovered amidst this madness. If there is anything at all that I can do for you, simply name it, Maisie .... I am happy that at the least you were able to spend some time with Peter. I am glad he is in good health.
I do have some news of my own to relay. It is rather disappointing, to say the least. Naturally, as all unpleasant things seem to begin, this bit of news pertains to the ever-present Vaughn Rousseau. This morning was the day I have dreaded ever since my return from Montparnasse--the day my conniving French tutor would return. The subject of my daily disgust and angst arrived precisely on the hour in the library. Madame Fifi came to alert me to his presence, but she must have been aware that I had been keenly listening for him all the morning; she did not press me to hurry as she usually does. I do not doubt that word of his lie has spread throughout the ranks of the household. I could feel my cheeks flush red as his name passed Madame Fifi's lips, and that rather ill feeling that Vaughn always seems to illicit accompanied me down the stairs as a myriad of indignant lectures sprang up in my mind--any of which I would have been happy to unleash upon him. I entered the room and there he was, sitting and casually thumbing through a book he had retrieved from the shelf. I sat down. I felt more uneasy than angry now; I had been so sure he would be fumbling over some poorly recited apology for his behaviour in Montparnasse. But there he sat, flipping through the pages of this book, paying me no mind at all. I say, Maisie, I was certainly not going to initiate conversation with the man! I crossed my ankles and folded my hands in my lap. Rousseau finally spoke, albeit without looking up from his book, "Good morning Adeline. I trust you have befittingly recovered from your drunken tryst in Montparnasse?" I was quite completely abashed--but the gullibility of my mind (which I am sure he had counted upon) did not outlast the realisation that Vaughn was only pointing out my indiscretions to detract attention from his own. I responded in my most flippant tone, "Well, I must admit, 'twas difficult to recover from my faux pas without the arms of my dear husband to help guide me." Vaughn put down his reading at once. He looked directly at me with fierceness, "Adeline, do you pretend not to understand?" Maisie, I assure you there was no pretense on my part. I felt altogether lost. I looked about the room, hoping to observe some obvious clue I had been neglecting, and stammered, "Vaughn--I do not know what--" He interrupted, his grimace hardening as he rose from his seat behind the desk. Spittle flew from his mouth as he chastised me, "You innocent young girl. Eduard never cared one whit for you." He was leaning in over the desk now, "I was the one who ransomed you from your captor." I felt suddenly weak, and subdued by this news . . . Vaughn saved me? He bent double to retrieve a bouquet of wretched lilies that had been at his feet. Instantly transformed, he proffered them to me and said softly, his voice cracking at the sudden shift, "I procured these on the Place Louis Lépine. You found it charming, did you not, when you went in search of purple irises for Madame Fifette?" He smiled with satisfaction as I silently took the lilies and began to restore order to the items on the desk that had been disheveled during his fit. I began to feel feverish, and quite physically unwell. Madame Fifi entered, and, upon measuring me with a shrewd look, said, "Is everything well? I heard you raise your voice to Miss Westley." She fixed an accusing gaze on Mr. Rousseau, and he returned it with one of haughty indignation, replying in a prideful tone, "Well, you know how difficult Miss Westley can be. She becomes so easily confused by the simplest of concepts." I stood and turned to Madame Fifi before she could leave, "Madame, please--I am not well--please reschedule Mr. Rousseau for another time. I cannot continue my lesson in this state." Madame Fifi turned to Vaughn with evident satisfaction, "Well, you heard mademoiselle--off you go." Madame Fifi shunted him to the door, notwithstanding his bargaining to stay. I went immediately to my bed. The idea that Vaughn was my saviour was sour in my stomach. I closed my eyes, trying to ward off the intruding vision of Vaughn saving my life, when the most peculiar oddity struck me: Vaughn had asked how I liked Place Louis Lépine--only, I have never been to the flower market to buy irises for Madame Fifi, or for any other reason . . . or had I? That moment, an image flickered in my recollection: I could see tiers of various perennials around me. There were cabbage roses, irises and gerberas in splendid yellows, pinks and scarlets. The smell of rosemary bushes and lavender perfumed the air. I could hear the barges trolling through fog over the Seine--perhaps I was on the Ile Saint Louis--no--it must have been the Ile de la Cité--I could see the two towers of Notre Dame. Indeed, I carried in my arms a handsome bunch of violet flowers. Through the thick air, a tall man approached me. He possessed a fine but worried countenance, his eyebrows drawing together, he asked me if I would assist him in finding a lost boy's mother. He explained that the boy was but five or six years of age, and quite afraid. I remember agreeing most immediately, and following the man with great urgency as he led me to the alley just behind the flower peddlers. He paused, and my eyes searched the empty alleyway for the child. I walked a few paces, my footsteps echoing in the damp street; the boy was nowhere to be seen. I turned to ask the man, "The boy--has he run off?" The stranger, saying nothing, walked slowly toward me, pulling a dampened handkerchief from his breast pocket. At that moment I knew I had made a grave mistake. The clatter of an approaching carriage ceased at the entrance to the alley. An uncultured voice called out, "Shapcott! We haven't got time for you to play a game of loll tongue! Do her down and let's hook it!" I looked up and into the man's dark eyes as he walked straight toward me, and then there was a flood of realisation--I knew him. It was the man my father brought home for me to wed. He was not immediately recognisable to me without the beard that had seemed to cover much of his face--but the black eyes were burned into my memory. I opened my mouth to scream--but the man seized me and covered my nose and mouth with the damp handkerchief. I remember the flowers falling onto the cobblestone street, and then there was nothing.
I can only wish for these vile recollections to stop, Maisie. It profits me nothing to relive these events, and I had much rather put it all behind me. I do feel rather sheepish that I was unable to compose myself long enough to require Vaughn to answer some questions about the ordeal. However did he find me? What's more, why did he not deliver me to Mr. Westley himself? I do not relish seeing him, but I must endure if I am to get the answers to my questions. Perhaps I should be grateful--I have wished these many nights to know the identity of my rescuer--and yet I cannot repress the profound disappointment of this discovery, Maisie. The thought of my rescuer had given me something of hope to cling to, but to know it was only Rousseau ... I feel as if I had bitten into an apple and found it to be made of wax. But all of this is trifling, and pales in comparison to your dashed dreams of a life with Stuart. I have no doubt you will have much more news for me in your next letter. Do take care. You are in my thoughts, always.
Yours,
Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
14 Bathurst Mews
London
10 April 1903
Dearest Maisie,
My dearest of friends, how can I be of any consolation to you? I simply cannot fathom, any more than you can, a reason for Stuart's deceit. I will not feign to know the tribulations of your heart. My words seem of little use at a time such as this. If only I were there with you. You seem so certain all is lost, but if I know Stuart Hill, he shall not give you up so easily. Perhaps there is some tiny shred of goodness to be discovered amidst this madness. If there is anything at all that I can do for you, simply name it, Maisie .... I am happy that at the least you were able to spend some time with Peter. I am glad he is in good health.
I do have some news of my own to relay. It is rather disappointing, to say the least. Naturally, as all unpleasant things seem to begin, this bit of news pertains to the ever-present Vaughn Rousseau. This morning was the day I have dreaded ever since my return from Montparnasse--the day my conniving French tutor would return. The subject of my daily disgust and angst arrived precisely on the hour in the library. Madame Fifi came to alert me to his presence, but she must have been aware that I had been keenly listening for him all the morning; she did not press me to hurry as she usually does. I do not doubt that word of his lie has spread throughout the ranks of the household. I could feel my cheeks flush red as his name passed Madame Fifi's lips, and that rather ill feeling that Vaughn always seems to illicit accompanied me down the stairs as a myriad of indignant lectures sprang up in my mind--any of which I would have been happy to unleash upon him. I entered the room and there he was, sitting and casually thumbing through a book he had retrieved from the shelf. I sat down. I felt more uneasy than angry now; I had been so sure he would be fumbling over some poorly recited apology for his behaviour in Montparnasse. But there he sat, flipping through the pages of this book, paying me no mind at all. I say, Maisie, I was certainly not going to initiate conversation with the man! I crossed my ankles and folded my hands in my lap. Rousseau finally spoke, albeit without looking up from his book, "Good morning Adeline. I trust you have befittingly recovered from your drunken tryst in Montparnasse?" I was quite completely abashed--but the gullibility of my mind (which I am sure he had counted upon) did not outlast the realisation that Vaughn was only pointing out my indiscretions to detract attention from his own. I responded in my most flippant tone, "Well, I must admit, 'twas difficult to recover from my faux pas without the arms of my dear husband to help guide me." Vaughn put down his reading at once. He looked directly at me with fierceness, "Adeline, do you pretend not to understand?" Maisie, I assure you there was no pretense on my part. I felt altogether lost. I looked about the room, hoping to observe some obvious clue I had been neglecting, and stammered, "Vaughn--I do not know what--" He interrupted, his grimace hardening as he rose from his seat behind the desk. Spittle flew from his mouth as he chastised me, "You innocent young girl. Eduard never cared one whit for you." He was leaning in over the desk now, "I was the one who ransomed you from your captor." I felt suddenly weak, and subdued by this news . . . Vaughn saved me? He bent double to retrieve a bouquet of wretched lilies that had been at his feet. Instantly transformed, he proffered them to me and said softly, his voice cracking at the sudden shift, "I procured these on the Place Louis Lépine. You found it charming, did you not, when you went in search of purple irises for Madame Fifette?" He smiled with satisfaction as I silently took the lilies and began to restore order to the items on the desk that had been disheveled during his fit. I began to feel feverish, and quite physically unwell. Madame Fifi entered, and, upon measuring me with a shrewd look, said, "Is everything well? I heard you raise your voice to Miss Westley." She fixed an accusing gaze on Mr. Rousseau, and he returned it with one of haughty indignation, replying in a prideful tone, "Well, you know how difficult Miss Westley can be. She becomes so easily confused by the simplest of concepts." I stood and turned to Madame Fifi before she could leave, "Madame, please--I am not well--please reschedule Mr. Rousseau for another time. I cannot continue my lesson in this state." Madame Fifi turned to Vaughn with evident satisfaction, "Well, you heard mademoiselle--off you go." Madame Fifi shunted him to the door, notwithstanding his bargaining to stay. I went immediately to my bed. The idea that Vaughn was my saviour was sour in my stomach. I closed my eyes, trying to ward off the intruding vision of Vaughn saving my life, when the most peculiar oddity struck me: Vaughn had asked how I liked Place Louis Lépine--only, I have never been to the flower market to buy irises for Madame Fifi, or for any other reason . . . or had I? That moment, an image flickered in my recollection: I could see tiers of various perennials around me. There were cabbage roses, irises and gerberas in splendid yellows, pinks and scarlets. The smell of rosemary bushes and lavender perfumed the air. I could hear the barges trolling through fog over the Seine--perhaps I was on the Ile Saint Louis--no--it must have been the Ile de la Cité--I could see the two towers of Notre Dame. Indeed, I carried in my arms a handsome bunch of violet flowers. Through the thick air, a tall man approached me. He possessed a fine but worried countenance, his eyebrows drawing together, he asked me if I would assist him in finding a lost boy's mother. He explained that the boy was but five or six years of age, and quite afraid. I remember agreeing most immediately, and following the man with great urgency as he led me to the alley just behind the flower peddlers. He paused, and my eyes searched the empty alleyway for the child. I walked a few paces, my footsteps echoing in the damp street; the boy was nowhere to be seen. I turned to ask the man, "The boy--has he run off?" The stranger, saying nothing, walked slowly toward me, pulling a dampened handkerchief from his breast pocket. At that moment I knew I had made a grave mistake. The clatter of an approaching carriage ceased at the entrance to the alley. An uncultured voice called out, "Shapcott! We haven't got time for you to play a game of loll tongue! Do her down and let's hook it!" I looked up and into the man's dark eyes as he walked straight toward me, and then there was a flood of realisation--I knew him. It was the man my father brought home for me to wed. He was not immediately recognisable to me without the beard that had seemed to cover much of his face--but the black eyes were burned into my memory. I opened my mouth to scream--but the man seized me and covered my nose and mouth with the damp handkerchief. I remember the flowers falling onto the cobblestone street, and then there was nothing.
I can only wish for these vile recollections to stop, Maisie. It profits me nothing to relive these events, and I had much rather put it all behind me. I do feel rather sheepish that I was unable to compose myself long enough to require Vaughn to answer some questions about the ordeal. However did he find me? What's more, why did he not deliver me to Mr. Westley himself? I do not relish seeing him, but I must endure if I am to get the answers to my questions. Perhaps I should be grateful--I have wished these many nights to know the identity of my rescuer--and yet I cannot repress the profound disappointment of this discovery, Maisie. The thought of my rescuer had given me something of hope to cling to, but to know it was only Rousseau ... I feel as if I had bitten into an apple and found it to be made of wax. But all of this is trifling, and pales in comparison to your dashed dreams of a life with Stuart. I have no doubt you will have much more news for me in your next letter. Do take care. You are in my thoughts, always.
Yours,
Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
Diary Entry 34a - Christmas Past
I made my way to Abney Park to bury my father on a crisp, wintry Sunday. The coachman lead the hearse and four plumed horses away from the churchyard as I followed close behind. The bell tolled from the belfry as the undertaker approached me, handing me a note of indebtedness for the preparation of the body. 'Twas Christmas day, and even more than the guilt I felt for my absence these past three years, I felt numb from disappointment, as I was the only person in attendance. I should have know they would not come. I tried to divert my eyes from the emptiness surrounding me as the clergyman continued. The grave diggers had dug a fine trench, befitting my father's tall stature. Two men began to raise the stone as they lowered the lead coffin down beneath the frozen earth. The headstone's epitaph read:
In Memory of
Henry A. Westley
Who departed this life
December 20, 1887
Aged 62 years
~
From whence I came, thereto I go
~
Husband to Mary Elizabeth Murray, Father to Charles & Walter
The snow began to fall and I remained there alone at my father's grave. The inhabitants of Stoke Newington had no doubt begun their festivities. I could hear the faint carols trolling from St. Mary's, and I longed for Elyse to be again at my side. How father had adored her! Her absence left a drafty emptiness, and the little one . . . she evokes a pain I cannot altogether bear. I could hear her laughing as if she were close enough to embrace. I started when I felt two small arms suddenly about me, and there she was. "Adeline!" My eyes strained through the coming tears as I embraced the child. I looked out into the distance--'twas a vision--my Elyse! My heart thundered inside my chest as she waded through the drifts of snow. Had it really been three years? She extended a gloved hand to greet me, "Hello, Charles . . . I thought it only fitting for Addie to visit her grandfather's grave." She looked as angelic as the memory I had kept of her, but the beauty faded from my mind as I inquired, "Is Walter with you?" She replied, "No--he would not come." I gazed back down at the little girl; my heart twisted as the unwelcome questions flooded into my heart and mind. My desire to make amends was censured by reason. I asked, "How long do you intend to persecute me, Elyse? Be truthful! Am I the father of this child?" Her expression was closed and distant. She replied only, "We are leaving." She fetched Adeline, taking her by the hand and as she passed me, prompted, "Adeline, say goodbye to your . . . uncle." I paused to temper my growing enmity, clutching at Elyse's arm and turning her towards me, "You cannot do this to me--and you cannot do it to Walter." Her face softened for the briefest of moments, then she pulled out of my grip and turned away without a word.
I watched as they left the cemetery, then began my own trek back to my father's house. Waiting for me upon the front steps was a large package, wrapped in brown paper. There was no note, but I soon realized who had left it for me. I removed the wrappings immediately, to find a carefully rendered portrait of a small girl--the same small girl who had recently been borne away from me by her cold and beautiful mother. There was no welcome upon my entrance into the house, it seemed more vacant and unfriendly than when I had left it last. I started a fire and settled into my father's chair, propping the painting on a chair opposite my place so that I could gaze on it. Just as I was nodding off to sleep, there was a knock at the door. I roused to answer it, but this unexpected guest let herself in. In the doorway stood a lovely young woman. She introduced herself in a strong French accent, "You must be Charles. I have heard so much about you--please forgive me for not attending the funeral--my mother was a dear friend of Henry's and sent me to tend to the household duties so that you may have sufficient time to mourn. My name is Fifette." I welcomed her inside, and bade her choose any room she would like for her keeping. I imagine it was not difficult to detect my sadness, as she invited me to tell her more about my father. I am afraid I could not keep my troubles from this enjoyable woman, and did confide in her all that burdened me. She, in turn, told me of Paris--and how intriguing it did seem to me! I was seized with a desire to start over. My spirit was indeed uplifted by the fortuitous gift of her kindness.
As this most unholy of Christmases comes to a close, I shall leave on these pages a resolve to begin anew. Mademoiselle Fifette fetched me some brandy, and I felt that no other Christmas gift could have been so fine. Tonight, I raise a glass to tomorrow . . . and to Paris.
(We would like to extend special thanks to David Hunter for originally featuring this Special Edition Letter on his blog.)
Letter 34 - A Walk in the Park
Miss Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
1 April 1903
Dearest Addie,
I am sorry for your suffering, darling, but know that Mr. Steichen has only proven himself less worthy of you than I had once believed. If you have been made a fool by the influence of absinthe, I am double the fool due to my own naïveté. I cannot express the heaviness of my heart. It is quite broken, Addie. Mum says I shall recover, and learn to love again--but I shan't. I am ruined for romance. There will be no wedding, no little children with Stuart's green eyes, no future which I consider at all worthy of description. And although there is an irritating, logical voice which begs me to realize that my mood is highly melodramatic and ridiculous, I refuse to give it heed. I feel as if the very core of my existence, and all that I knew to be true with my whole heart, has been torn from me--and without that centre I am adrift, having nothing to anchor me to my former existence. I am utterly wretched, but I must commit it to paper. I want you to know, and I want to convince myself, that what I have done is right.
The chain of events which has left me in this state of despair began when I received a summons to New Scotland Yard. I knew it must be in regards to my former visit there, and assumed that the coroner involved must require further information about Mr. Collins. It would not be a pleasant errand, I reflected, but the weather was unusually fine for the season--cold but clear--and I determined to enjoy the outing. I well remember the short but pleasant walk to Lancaster Gate, the last time I can recall being unreservedly happy. Upon arrival I gave my name at the desk, and was only required to wait a few moments before a young man I recognized appeared and offered me his arm. "Ah, yes--Miss Bristow. This way, please." It was the same cadet who had escorted me to the mortuary when last I was at Scotland Yard. He very courteously guided me to a small office down the hall from the reception area and bade me sit, whereupon I fixed him with a gaze that must surely have displayed my curiosity at his invitation.
"It is quite natural that you should wonder at my invitation," he began, echoing my thoughts," and I must allow that in most cases, I would have thought it sufficient to send correspondence." He paused, and seemed to consider his next words carefully. "I ... had thought it kindness to inform you that Joseph Collins II of Yorkshire is indeed deceased, but that he was not the man whom you identified on 14 February of this year. Upon further inquiry, our sources have verified that Joseph Collins II was killed six months ago in a motor-car accident in France. His remains were duly returned to his kin in Yorkshire, and his body is interred there with those other deceased members of his family." Having said all this, he looked me over with a polite solicitousness, as if to ascertain my state of mind at this revelation. When I did not speak, as I was, indeed, quite without the power just then, he continued, "As you were a friend, and are a lady, I felt it proper for you to be aware of the true circumstances of his death, so as not to despoil his character."
I am sure I was discourteous, Addie, for my mind had been set to racing at this extraordinary news. All my thoughts turned toward Stuart, and the question of how this misunderstanding could have come about. So absorbed was I in this line of thinking, that it was necessary for the cadet to speak my name more than once, I suspect, before I became aware of it and found my tongue. I made all the courtesies the situation required, I hope, and asked to be shown out, that I might spend some time alone. The cadet, who it transpired was called James Murphy, showed me every kindness, and perhaps more concern than I deserved. He walked me to the street, apologizing for upsetting me all the way, and seemed almost to regret having summoned me to Scotland Yard at all. I was quite keen to be rid of him, Addie, for his presence required me to divide my attentions--attentions which I desired to put fully to use in tumbling to the bottom of this most puzzling circumstance. Mr. Murphy, however, seemed equally as keen to assure himself that he had not caused me undue distress, so I was obliged to convince him of it. At last I was free, Addie--Mr. Murphy had, at my vehement request, returned to his duties, and I was alone on Victoria Enbankment. I began to walk, not particularly mindful of my direction, and to think fiercely. Joseph Collins was six months dead, so he could not have been the man who accosted Stuart at Portobello Market. Perhaps he only looked a great deal like the real Joseph Collins--"a bit of a ringer," as Stuart had said ... only that would not explain why the man had called himself Collins, or how he was acquainted with Stuart if not from time spent together at Oxford. Had this man, for reasons best known to himself, succeeded in deceiving Stuart? Was it all some sort of jest? Perhaps Joseph Collins had a twin, an unkind twin, who wished to mock Stuart in some way? Was it Joseph Collins' brother who had perished so ignominiously on Wapping Wall? No, that did not suit, either. Whatever investigations the police had undertaken, if Joseph Collins had a twin, and if that twin had been unaccounted for at the time, surely they would have known him for the dead man. The only other conclusion became clear to me at once, and it was not a pleasant one. Perhaps Stuart was not the object of this jest ... perhaps I was the one to have been fooled. If the man was not Collins, and if Stuart knew this, what other reason would the two of them have had to engage in the charade? And yet, Stuart had seemed so genuinely upset by the encounter--it seemed folly to think he had a hand in something that had caused him such real pain. Unless ... unless the pain was not real. Was it possible, could it be that Stuart had engineered the entire scene for my benefit--the unkindness and the repentance both? And to what end? But if he had, Addie, if he had ... the fraudulent Mr. Collins was not the only unlucky one for having been murdered. Stuart was nearly as unfortunate, as the death of his erstwhile colleague had, in a roundabout manner, alerted me to the duplicity of Stuart's own actions. No wonder he had not wished to identify the man! He knew full well that the man had not been Collins, and identifying him otherwise would likely have resulted in my coming to the very same conclusions I was now constrained to accept: that Stuart had not been honest with me, that he had some mysterious agenda which required that I be deceived, and my emotions toyed with. I was quite incensed, Addie. My anger and shame were so acute, in fact, that I did not notice my own brother approaching me until he had blocked my path.
"What are you doing here, Maisie? If you've come to visit, I haven't time for it today. You should have made an appointment. At any rate, hadn't you ought to be at home on such a cold day?"
It took a moment for the meaning of his words to penetrate my outraged mood. "Yes, of course, Peter--you live round here, don't you?" Amusement immediately replaced Peter's brisk manner, and his mouth quirked into a familiar expression of brotherly indulgence. "Indeed, Maisie. But may I assume you did not come this long way merely to confirm that fact?" I did not want to talk to Peter, Addie, I did not want to talk to any person at that moment, nor did I wish to admit my doubts about Stuart to Peter, who had been striving to discredit his friend since the announcement of our engagement, and who might very well be correct in all his unwelcome criticisms. I was angry with Stuart, so angry I felt light-headed, and yet I did not wish to hear him abused further at that moment. I had a great suspicion that I would not be able to endure it. But here was Peter, and I could hardly ignore him. Indeed, I had not seen him at all for some time. "No, I came ... I was on an errand for Mum." Peter's amusement seemed to double as he said, "Here?" he indicated the Thames with a sweeping motion of his arm, "I suppose she engaged you to angle up a few trout for supper? You needn't be self-conscious, Maisie, I will admit that I have missed seeing you, as well." Here was warmth which I had not received from Peter in some time. It was disarming, indeed, Addie, to find him so suddenly transformed into the Peter of old. Torn as I was, I found myself inclined to stay with Peter a while, and bask in this unexpected ray of affection and good humor. "You ... you are busy, then?" I ventured. He glanced behind him, opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again and offered me his arm. "Let us walk," he said.
And so nearly half an hour was passed most pleasantly, as we walked along the Thames and amused ourselves by guessing the errands of the various passersby. Peter was kind enough to ask after Stuart, but this only served to remind me of my recent conclusions concerning him. "I have another question for you, Peter, about Joseph Collins." "Do you, indeed?" returned Peter, "And what is it that you crave to know today?" "Well," I began, "Ever since Stuart mentioned him to me, I have been wondering if he had ginger hair. I knew three Collins girls at Cheltenham, all of them ginger." It was good to hear Peter laugh without bitterness. "Maisie, I had almost forgotten what a source of amusement you are. But to answer your question--no, Collins was quite as dark as Stuart. The two of them were very alike in appearance, in fact. I wonder at your questions, Maisie. Has Stuart spoken of Collins often?" It was a struggle to remain in such a state of mind as to be able to answer Peter's question naturally, for it seemed to me that I had been made quite a fool. The man I had met at the Market had not looked a thing like Stuart, excepting perhaps in similarity of height, and certainly could not be called dark of hair. I must have maintained a passable composure, however, as Peter did not seem to think anything amiss when I answered, "No, not often. It's only, I had thought--as he and Stuart were such great chums at school--perhaps it would be wise to invite him to the ... the wedding." It truly grieved me to speak of it, Addie, for I very much felt that there would be no such wedding. My own feelings were somewhat eclipsed, however, by the cloud that stole across Peter's countenance at my words. He ceased to walk, and turned to look at me, seeming to consider my mood, then began gently, "Did Stuart never tell you, Maisie, that Collins was killed some months ago?" This news was not completely unexpected, Addie, for I did not really doubt the thoroughness of the Metropolitan Police, and yet it hurt all the same, to have this information corroborated. When I did not immediately reply, Peter continued, "Perhaps not. It was a great blow to Stuart, I know, for I conveyed the news to him myself. I suppose he had rather not speak of it." And then I quite lost my ability to remain on my feet, for here was proof--proof of the lie, and of Stuart's disingenuousness. Stuart had known that his friend was dead long before we supposedly met him at Portobello Market, there was no further excuse to be made, and no amount of explanation could sufficiently account for his deceit. Thankfully, Peter took my swoon as a reaction to the news of Collins' unfortunate demise at such a young age, and helped me to a low stone wall to sit for a moment and regain my composure. The pleasure of my walk with Peter was ended, but I attempted, as well as I could in my present state, to express to my brother my happiness at the change in him, and my enjoyment of the time spent together which reminded me so much of our former closeness and camaraderie. This, it became apparent, was the wrong thing to have said. Peter seemed to recall himself instantly, and was much cooler as he walked me to Westminster Bridge and said his farewells. I waited long enough to ensure Peter would be out of sight, then exited the station and began the walk home through the parks.
Whether it was fortune or curse, I am sure I do not know, but who do you think I met halfway across Green Park? It was Stuart himself, out riding with his father, and it was more than I could bear. To see him, and to know of his betrayal--to be in the presence of Sir John and so many cheerful strangers who were about their leisure in the park, enjoying the rare sunshine--I could not speak to Stuart as I wished, nor could I pretend all was well. I thought I might die from the disparity between my wild desire to speak my mind and my more cautious inclination to stay on the side of propriety. He did not see me at first, and my eyes filled with angry tears as I watched him from some little distance. I had stopped short in the middle of the path, and was scrubbing the moisture from my eyes rather violently, when his eyes fell on me. The look of genuine delight on his face when he discerned me, Addie, caused me more pain than had the shock of coming upon him so suddenly. He had no right to look so overjoyed at my appearance! Stuart spoke a few words to his father, who nodded and continued on across the park, then urged his own fine Morgan gelding toward me. At least I would be spared from having this interview witnessed by Sir John, but it was a cold comfort. Stuart dismounted immediately upon reaching my side, transferred his reins to his left hand, and took my hand in his right. He peered down into my face with that same look of utter delight for the briefest of moments before his brow creased with concern. "What is it, Maisie? What's happened?" I could not meet his gaze, Addie. I kept my eyes on the path and merely asked, "Shall we walk?" Stuart acquiesced, and I took the arm he offered with a mixture of reluctance and gratitude. It was utterly disgusting how glad I was to feel the warmth of him at my side, the strength of his supporting arm--and unbearably bittersweet, knowing it would be the last time. I could not keep the tears from coming, and Stuart offered silent glances and gestures of consolation when it became apparent to him that I did not wish to speak. At length this very sincerity of kindness on Stuart's part was more than I could endure. After all, hadn't he put on remorse the day he had deceived me? Hadn't his feigned sincerity fooled me rather too thoroughly? As we approached Grosvenor Crescent, I stopped short and told Stuart he would please me best by going home, I would rather walk the rest of the way to the mews unaccompanied. Had I not been in such exquisite pain myself, and gripped by a sudden spark of righteous anger, I might have experienced more regret at the injury these words seemed to inflict on Stuart. "Come home with me, Maisie, Mrs. White will get you tea, you musn't be alone in this state--I entreat you!" I wrenched my arm away from his and finally raised my face to meet his eyes. "Do not entreat me, Mr. Hill. You have used me, and I am done with you." I was surprised at the hardness of my own voice, which seemed to ring in the clear air like a hollow bell. My face was still wet with tears, but they had ceased flowing. Addie, my heart felt as cold as my voice, and I turned my back on Stuart and strode away toward Hyde Park. I did not look back, but I could not stop my ears, and I listened for the gelding's hooves moving on the path, or the jingle of his harnesses, in vain.
I am sure I shall be called upon to speak to Stuart soon, and I dread the prospect. I feel that I shall never be cheerful again. Please do not delay in writing.
Sincerely,
Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
1 April 1903
Dearest Addie,
I am sorry for your suffering, darling, but know that Mr. Steichen has only proven himself less worthy of you than I had once believed. If you have been made a fool by the influence of absinthe, I am double the fool due to my own naïveté. I cannot express the heaviness of my heart. It is quite broken, Addie. Mum says I shall recover, and learn to love again--but I shan't. I am ruined for romance. There will be no wedding, no little children with Stuart's green eyes, no future which I consider at all worthy of description. And although there is an irritating, logical voice which begs me to realize that my mood is highly melodramatic and ridiculous, I refuse to give it heed. I feel as if the very core of my existence, and all that I knew to be true with my whole heart, has been torn from me--and without that centre I am adrift, having nothing to anchor me to my former existence. I am utterly wretched, but I must commit it to paper. I want you to know, and I want to convince myself, that what I have done is right.
The chain of events which has left me in this state of despair began when I received a summons to New Scotland Yard. I knew it must be in regards to my former visit there, and assumed that the coroner involved must require further information about Mr. Collins. It would not be a pleasant errand, I reflected, but the weather was unusually fine for the season--cold but clear--and I determined to enjoy the outing. I well remember the short but pleasant walk to Lancaster Gate, the last time I can recall being unreservedly happy. Upon arrival I gave my name at the desk, and was only required to wait a few moments before a young man I recognized appeared and offered me his arm. "Ah, yes--Miss Bristow. This way, please." It was the same cadet who had escorted me to the mortuary when last I was at Scotland Yard. He very courteously guided me to a small office down the hall from the reception area and bade me sit, whereupon I fixed him with a gaze that must surely have displayed my curiosity at his invitation.
"It is quite natural that you should wonder at my invitation," he began, echoing my thoughts," and I must allow that in most cases, I would have thought it sufficient to send correspondence." He paused, and seemed to consider his next words carefully. "I ... had thought it kindness to inform you that Joseph Collins II of Yorkshire is indeed deceased, but that he was not the man whom you identified on 14 February of this year. Upon further inquiry, our sources have verified that Joseph Collins II was killed six months ago in a motor-car accident in France. His remains were duly returned to his kin in Yorkshire, and his body is interred there with those other deceased members of his family." Having said all this, he looked me over with a polite solicitousness, as if to ascertain my state of mind at this revelation. When I did not speak, as I was, indeed, quite without the power just then, he continued, "As you were a friend, and are a lady, I felt it proper for you to be aware of the true circumstances of his death, so as not to despoil his character."
I am sure I was discourteous, Addie, for my mind had been set to racing at this extraordinary news. All my thoughts turned toward Stuart, and the question of how this misunderstanding could have come about. So absorbed was I in this line of thinking, that it was necessary for the cadet to speak my name more than once, I suspect, before I became aware of it and found my tongue. I made all the courtesies the situation required, I hope, and asked to be shown out, that I might spend some time alone. The cadet, who it transpired was called James Murphy, showed me every kindness, and perhaps more concern than I deserved. He walked me to the street, apologizing for upsetting me all the way, and seemed almost to regret having summoned me to Scotland Yard at all. I was quite keen to be rid of him, Addie, for his presence required me to divide my attentions--attentions which I desired to put fully to use in tumbling to the bottom of this most puzzling circumstance. Mr. Murphy, however, seemed equally as keen to assure himself that he had not caused me undue distress, so I was obliged to convince him of it. At last I was free, Addie--Mr. Murphy had, at my vehement request, returned to his duties, and I was alone on Victoria Enbankment. I began to walk, not particularly mindful of my direction, and to think fiercely. Joseph Collins was six months dead, so he could not have been the man who accosted Stuart at Portobello Market. Perhaps he only looked a great deal like the real Joseph Collins--"a bit of a ringer," as Stuart had said ... only that would not explain why the man had called himself Collins, or how he was acquainted with Stuart if not from time spent together at Oxford. Had this man, for reasons best known to himself, succeeded in deceiving Stuart? Was it all some sort of jest? Perhaps Joseph Collins had a twin, an unkind twin, who wished to mock Stuart in some way? Was it Joseph Collins' brother who had perished so ignominiously on Wapping Wall? No, that did not suit, either. Whatever investigations the police had undertaken, if Joseph Collins had a twin, and if that twin had been unaccounted for at the time, surely they would have known him for the dead man. The only other conclusion became clear to me at once, and it was not a pleasant one. Perhaps Stuart was not the object of this jest ... perhaps I was the one to have been fooled. If the man was not Collins, and if Stuart knew this, what other reason would the two of them have had to engage in the charade? And yet, Stuart had seemed so genuinely upset by the encounter--it seemed folly to think he had a hand in something that had caused him such real pain. Unless ... unless the pain was not real. Was it possible, could it be that Stuart had engineered the entire scene for my benefit--the unkindness and the repentance both? And to what end? But if he had, Addie, if he had ... the fraudulent Mr. Collins was not the only unlucky one for having been murdered. Stuart was nearly as unfortunate, as the death of his erstwhile colleague had, in a roundabout manner, alerted me to the duplicity of Stuart's own actions. No wonder he had not wished to identify the man! He knew full well that the man had not been Collins, and identifying him otherwise would likely have resulted in my coming to the very same conclusions I was now constrained to accept: that Stuart had not been honest with me, that he had some mysterious agenda which required that I be deceived, and my emotions toyed with. I was quite incensed, Addie. My anger and shame were so acute, in fact, that I did not notice my own brother approaching me until he had blocked my path.
"What are you doing here, Maisie? If you've come to visit, I haven't time for it today. You should have made an appointment. At any rate, hadn't you ought to be at home on such a cold day?"
It took a moment for the meaning of his words to penetrate my outraged mood. "Yes, of course, Peter--you live round here, don't you?" Amusement immediately replaced Peter's brisk manner, and his mouth quirked into a familiar expression of brotherly indulgence. "Indeed, Maisie. But may I assume you did not come this long way merely to confirm that fact?" I did not want to talk to Peter, Addie, I did not want to talk to any person at that moment, nor did I wish to admit my doubts about Stuart to Peter, who had been striving to discredit his friend since the announcement of our engagement, and who might very well be correct in all his unwelcome criticisms. I was angry with Stuart, so angry I felt light-headed, and yet I did not wish to hear him abused further at that moment. I had a great suspicion that I would not be able to endure it. But here was Peter, and I could hardly ignore him. Indeed, I had not seen him at all for some time. "No, I came ... I was on an errand for Mum." Peter's amusement seemed to double as he said, "Here?" he indicated the Thames with a sweeping motion of his arm, "I suppose she engaged you to angle up a few trout for supper? You needn't be self-conscious, Maisie, I will admit that I have missed seeing you, as well." Here was warmth which I had not received from Peter in some time. It was disarming, indeed, Addie, to find him so suddenly transformed into the Peter of old. Torn as I was, I found myself inclined to stay with Peter a while, and bask in this unexpected ray of affection and good humor. "You ... you are busy, then?" I ventured. He glanced behind him, opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again and offered me his arm. "Let us walk," he said.
And so nearly half an hour was passed most pleasantly, as we walked along the Thames and amused ourselves by guessing the errands of the various passersby. Peter was kind enough to ask after Stuart, but this only served to remind me of my recent conclusions concerning him. "I have another question for you, Peter, about Joseph Collins." "Do you, indeed?" returned Peter, "And what is it that you crave to know today?" "Well," I began, "Ever since Stuart mentioned him to me, I have been wondering if he had ginger hair. I knew three Collins girls at Cheltenham, all of them ginger." It was good to hear Peter laugh without bitterness. "Maisie, I had almost forgotten what a source of amusement you are. But to answer your question--no, Collins was quite as dark as Stuart. The two of them were very alike in appearance, in fact. I wonder at your questions, Maisie. Has Stuart spoken of Collins often?" It was a struggle to remain in such a state of mind as to be able to answer Peter's question naturally, for it seemed to me that I had been made quite a fool. The man I had met at the Market had not looked a thing like Stuart, excepting perhaps in similarity of height, and certainly could not be called dark of hair. I must have maintained a passable composure, however, as Peter did not seem to think anything amiss when I answered, "No, not often. It's only, I had thought--as he and Stuart were such great chums at school--perhaps it would be wise to invite him to the ... the wedding." It truly grieved me to speak of it, Addie, for I very much felt that there would be no such wedding. My own feelings were somewhat eclipsed, however, by the cloud that stole across Peter's countenance at my words. He ceased to walk, and turned to look at me, seeming to consider my mood, then began gently, "Did Stuart never tell you, Maisie, that Collins was killed some months ago?" This news was not completely unexpected, Addie, for I did not really doubt the thoroughness of the Metropolitan Police, and yet it hurt all the same, to have this information corroborated. When I did not immediately reply, Peter continued, "Perhaps not. It was a great blow to Stuart, I know, for I conveyed the news to him myself. I suppose he had rather not speak of it." And then I quite lost my ability to remain on my feet, for here was proof--proof of the lie, and of Stuart's disingenuousness. Stuart had known that his friend was dead long before we supposedly met him at Portobello Market, there was no further excuse to be made, and no amount of explanation could sufficiently account for his deceit. Thankfully, Peter took my swoon as a reaction to the news of Collins' unfortunate demise at such a young age, and helped me to a low stone wall to sit for a moment and regain my composure. The pleasure of my walk with Peter was ended, but I attempted, as well as I could in my present state, to express to my brother my happiness at the change in him, and my enjoyment of the time spent together which reminded me so much of our former closeness and camaraderie. This, it became apparent, was the wrong thing to have said. Peter seemed to recall himself instantly, and was much cooler as he walked me to Westminster Bridge and said his farewells. I waited long enough to ensure Peter would be out of sight, then exited the station and began the walk home through the parks.
Whether it was fortune or curse, I am sure I do not know, but who do you think I met halfway across Green Park? It was Stuart himself, out riding with his father, and it was more than I could bear. To see him, and to know of his betrayal--to be in the presence of Sir John and so many cheerful strangers who were about their leisure in the park, enjoying the rare sunshine--I could not speak to Stuart as I wished, nor could I pretend all was well. I thought I might die from the disparity between my wild desire to speak my mind and my more cautious inclination to stay on the side of propriety. He did not see me at first, and my eyes filled with angry tears as I watched him from some little distance. I had stopped short in the middle of the path, and was scrubbing the moisture from my eyes rather violently, when his eyes fell on me. The look of genuine delight on his face when he discerned me, Addie, caused me more pain than had the shock of coming upon him so suddenly. He had no right to look so overjoyed at my appearance! Stuart spoke a few words to his father, who nodded and continued on across the park, then urged his own fine Morgan gelding toward me. At least I would be spared from having this interview witnessed by Sir John, but it was a cold comfort. Stuart dismounted immediately upon reaching my side, transferred his reins to his left hand, and took my hand in his right. He peered down into my face with that same look of utter delight for the briefest of moments before his brow creased with concern. "What is it, Maisie? What's happened?" I could not meet his gaze, Addie. I kept my eyes on the path and merely asked, "Shall we walk?" Stuart acquiesced, and I took the arm he offered with a mixture of reluctance and gratitude. It was utterly disgusting how glad I was to feel the warmth of him at my side, the strength of his supporting arm--and unbearably bittersweet, knowing it would be the last time. I could not keep the tears from coming, and Stuart offered silent glances and gestures of consolation when it became apparent to him that I did not wish to speak. At length this very sincerity of kindness on Stuart's part was more than I could endure. After all, hadn't he put on remorse the day he had deceived me? Hadn't his feigned sincerity fooled me rather too thoroughly? As we approached Grosvenor Crescent, I stopped short and told Stuart he would please me best by going home, I would rather walk the rest of the way to the mews unaccompanied. Had I not been in such exquisite pain myself, and gripped by a sudden spark of righteous anger, I might have experienced more regret at the injury these words seemed to inflict on Stuart. "Come home with me, Maisie, Mrs. White will get you tea, you musn't be alone in this state--I entreat you!" I wrenched my arm away from his and finally raised my face to meet his eyes. "Do not entreat me, Mr. Hill. You have used me, and I am done with you." I was surprised at the hardness of my own voice, which seemed to ring in the clear air like a hollow bell. My face was still wet with tears, but they had ceased flowing. Addie, my heart felt as cold as my voice, and I turned my back on Stuart and strode away toward Hyde Park. I did not look back, but I could not stop my ears, and I listened for the gelding's hooves moving on the path, or the jingle of his harnesses, in vain.
I am sure I shall be called upon to speak to Stuart soon, and I dread the prospect. I feel that I shall never be cheerful again. Please do not delay in writing.
Sincerely,
Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London
Letter 33 - Absinthe
Miss Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London
22 March 1903
Dearest Maisie,
14 Bathurst Mews
London
22 March 1903
Dearest Maisie,
I am a bit downtrodden these past days. I will relay all of it to you, but first I must tell you, I am in complete agreement with your decision to go to the authorities to identify Collins. I can only imagine his mother's bereavement. I am saddened that you felt you could not tell Stuart your intentions; Maisie, what does this speak of your relationship, that you are keeping things from one another? Really, though, it is none of my concern--I am very much looking forward to October and all the wedding festivities. I cannot help but worry about Stuart's intentions, though.
As you might have imagined, I wasted no time making my way back to Montparnasse since my last letter. I took a carriage as far as Rue de Rennes and asked the driver to let me out on the corner. I walked the rest of the way to Café du Dôme, so that the driver would not know where I had gone, should Mr. Westley question him. The streets were alive with people, and the Café was crowded with the young and ambitious. The chatter and laughter in the air painted a scene much different from that of the quiet evening I had come with Vaughn. I peered around at the other patrons in the foyer in hopes of finding Van Hecke. And there he sat, in the back corner; this time with two other men. My heart was racing so that I nearly escaped back the way I had come. I had to assemble all my courage not to leave straightaway, but Van Hecke had already spotted me, so I pressed forward with my plan. I approached the back of the room, making my way around the bustling waiters. Van Hecke stopped pouring his cup of absinthe to lean over and mutter something to his associates--no doubt concerning my impending arrival. The three of them stopped what they had been doing to give me their full attention. Maisie, I had felt such dire need to return to the Café that I hadn't prepared my words, and felt suddenly quite exposed and foolish for coming. I smiled nervously and began, "Good evening gentlemen. Van Hecke, is it?" He smiled brightly and said, "Indeed." He turned towards the fellow he had been with before and introduced him, "Frederik Jakobsen," he turned to his right, "Gregor Hahn--let me introduce Mrs. Adeline Rousseau." My stomach turned. I lost my concentration momentarily, and found myself overwhelmed with loathing at the very thought of being wed to Vaughn Rousseau. Van Hecke spoke, "Please join us, Mrs. Rousseau." The men stood and Mr. Hahn pulled out my chair and bade me sit. Fraught with nervousness, I sat down and attempted to explain, "Gentlemen, I am not Mr. Rousseau's wife." Van Hecke resumed pouring his absinthe over a cube of sugar on a filigreed silver spoon. He raised his brow, "Perhaps you can help us to understand why Rousseau would say such a thing." I realised at that moment how very little I knew of all the sordid details of the goings on between these men and my French tutor. Acting on pure impulse, I decided not to smear Vaughn's name as I would have liked, liar though he is. I replied, "Vaughn is a difficult man, to be sure. I presume he was simply projecting his future wishes, as he may not be sure when you fellows might meet again." I made a great effort to put on a pleasant expression. Van Hecke asked, "You are engaged to be married, then?" Rather timidly I answered, "No, not exactly." This time Mr. Jakobsen questioned me, with a bit more amusement in his tone, "Do not keep us in such suspense! We are all anxious to hear how Mr. Rousseau was able to snare such a lady!" I'm quite sure my cheeks were flushed red with embarrassment. "Well, that is just it--he hasn't. I am not quite sure why Mr. Rousseau said what he did, but the fact remains that I am not married to anyone. My name is, in all actuality, Adeline Westley." Van Hecke picked up the absinthe in front of him and placed it in front of me. "Ah. So this is the elusive Miss Westley. Pity Steichen never brought you round. Have a drink with us, dear, and we shall be yours to converse with for the entirety of the night."
I am not sure what you may know about absinthe, Maisie, but in Paris it is quite fashionable. I will say that there are some that vilify the drink as being dangerous--malignant to one's own sanity even. And yet, if I did not drink . . . . I felt I was at a crossroads; here before me was this green, milky libation ... and it seemed to me that it was the essential key to my finding Eduard ... and yet how much was I willing to lose to find the answers? I will not argue should you think less of me, but I could not think on anything apart from inducing these men to talk. I picked up the heavy crystal glass and began to drink. It ignited my throat on the way down, tasting of anise--and nothing could have enchanted these fellows more than to see my eyes grow wide as I drank. Van Hecke called out to the waiter, "Another carafe, please! And bring the Suisse this time!" I am not without some good sense though, Maisie, for I limited myself to just the one glass before me, as Van Hecke and his cohorts drank the absinthe without restraint. After an hour of musing with these fellows, I turned to Mr. Hahn, who had remained the more silent of the three, and asked as nonchalantly as I could, "Do you know where I might find Steichen these days?" He adjusted his shirt cuffs, looking uneasy and said, "Forgive my asking, jonge dame, but we are not ignorant of the way Steichen ... conducted himself. Why are you so eager to find him?" I was unprepared for such candour, and was unsure how to defend myself. I replied, "Eduard made some grievous mistakes, yes--but should that mean he is denied the means to earn redemption?" Mr. Hahn cast his eyes away, "I am curious to know what Steichen has done to gain absolution in your eyes." Van Hecke leaned in across the table top and began to speak before I could answer, "Steichen has a brilliant mind. It is a crime he absconded." My spirit sank as I recalled the stinging pain of Eduard's betrayal.
I am not sure what you may know about absinthe, Maisie, but in Paris it is quite fashionable. I will say that there are some that vilify the drink as being dangerous--malignant to one's own sanity even. And yet, if I did not drink . . . . I felt I was at a crossroads; here before me was this green, milky libation ... and it seemed to me that it was the essential key to my finding Eduard ... and yet how much was I willing to lose to find the answers? I will not argue should you think less of me, but I could not think on anything apart from inducing these men to talk. I picked up the heavy crystal glass and began to drink. It ignited my throat on the way down, tasting of anise--and nothing could have enchanted these fellows more than to see my eyes grow wide as I drank. Van Hecke called out to the waiter, "Another carafe, please! And bring the Suisse this time!" I am not without some good sense though, Maisie, for I limited myself to just the one glass before me, as Van Hecke and his cohorts drank the absinthe without restraint. After an hour of musing with these fellows, I turned to Mr. Hahn, who had remained the more silent of the three, and asked as nonchalantly as I could, "Do you know where I might find Steichen these days?" He adjusted his shirt cuffs, looking uneasy and said, "Forgive my asking, jonge dame, but we are not ignorant of the way Steichen ... conducted himself. Why are you so eager to find him?" I was unprepared for such candour, and was unsure how to defend myself. I replied, "Eduard made some grievous mistakes, yes--but should that mean he is denied the means to earn redemption?" Mr. Hahn cast his eyes away, "I am curious to know what Steichen has done to gain absolution in your eyes." Van Hecke leaned in across the table top and began to speak before I could answer, "Steichen has a brilliant mind. It is a crime he absconded." My spirit sank as I recalled the stinging pain of Eduard's betrayal.
As the evening trolled on, I discovered a wealth of information--none of which was helpful to my cause, of course. Van Hecke is Belgian and Mr. Hahn, Dutch; the both of them are painters. Mr. Jakobsen is German and a photographer, like Eduard. These fellows were good company, but as the hours passed I began to notice the inevitable effects of the absinthe, and was rather concerned with revealing more than I ought. The dim lights of the cafe began to cause my head to ache. Maisie, I was not myself. Without forethought or a measure of restraint I asked Mr. Van Hecke why it is he loathes Mr. Rousseau. His did not hesitate to answer, "Rousseau is an ass. We tolerated him for a time because Steichen seemed to like him. Rousseau lost what little grace we had granted him when he chose to make a fool of himself for all to see." This was intriguing, Maisie. "What do you mean?" I asked. Van Hecke looked around at the others as if to invite sympathy as he explained, "He delivered a tongue-lashing that would have shamed a nun. I mean no disrespect, but a man has not the right to chastise another man about his choice in women--and none of us would put up with him after that." It took a moment for the scene he had just described to materialize in my head. "You mean to say, Vaughn scolded Eduard? For ... for leaving me?" "That is precisely what I mean--it was here in the Café. He told Steichen to--what was it again, Frederik?" Jakobsen cleared his throat, "I believe it was to 'crawl on his belly back to whence he came.'" Mr. Hahn interjected, "But that wasn't the worst of it--he told Steichen that you were in love with him." I was stunned and completely rapt, sure I was soon to hear the reason for Eduard's return. "What did Eduard say?" I asked. Van Hecke replied, "He called Rousseau a liar, and--" here he stopped short. The men consulted each other with guilty glances. Van Hecke spoke first, "The rest is inconsequential, mademoiselle." I was irate, "I may be a woman, but I am not witless. You needn't protect me from whatever it is." When none of them seemed on the point of speaking, I abandoned attempts at decorum and shouted at him, "Tell me the rest!" Van Hecke paused, then went on, "the two men got into a brawl, Steichen came out victorious, and that was the last we had seen of Rousseau until the night he arrived with you." Was I being taken for a fool? I pressed, "No--what was it that Steichen said after he called Vauhn a liar?" Van Hecke looked thoughtful, and said soothingly, "Now, Mademoiselle Westley--" I wouldn't have any of it, Maisie, I was determined to know, but before I could more than open my mouth to command him to tell me, Jakobsen said what Van Hecke would not: "Steichen said Rousseau could have you if he liked, that he was finished." I could feel my heart crumble to dust inside my chest. My eyes filled with tears, wetting my face as they ran down my cheeks onto my neck. Van Hecke took my hand and said, "Cherie, none of this matters--Steichen is gone--we haven't seen him for months." I withdrew my hand and began to stutter, "Y-you are wrong--he has returned--he saved my life." Mr. Hahn glanced at his watch and said to Van Hecke, "Let's get her to a carriage. She said she is staying at the Westley estate, up north." I began to protest, but already the three of them were standing to help me to the door. I wrenched myself free of their grip and said, "I am quite capable of walking unsupported." This was quite far from the truth, though, Maisie. As I stumbled out to the door I spied a man sitting alone in a darkened corner of the bistro. He was wearing a homburg hat, Maisie ... it was Eduard. I ran to him, he rose to catch me in his arms, and I kissed his face, murmuring with all the energy of my passion and the abandon imparted by the absinthe, "Eduard, you came back and all is forgiven--" But an unfamiliar voice assaulted my ears as the man stepped into the light, "Mademoiselle, I am sure you are mistaken ... " He gently removed my arms from around his neck, and, gazing up at this complete stranger, I could see I had indeed made a grave mistake. The man I had just unduly molested steadied me. Van Hecke and Mr. Jakobsen came to my aide and apologized on my behalf, as I was unable to speak. They fetched me a carriage, instructing the driver to take me home. I felt quite ill, and fell into a nightmarish sort of sleep on the brief drive to the estate. I could barely move or speak, but I was aware enough to feel the driver trying unsuccessfully to arouse me from my trance. To my complete mortification, the driver rang for Mr. Westley to fetch his fare. My memory is foggy, but I remember quite clearly the glare of anger that was in Mr. Westley's eyes as he escorted me upstairs and to my bedroom. He instructed my hand maid to clean me up and put me to bed as if I were a child of two.
Yours,
Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
Letter 32 - Identification
Miss Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
10 March 1903
Dearest Addie,
Do you really think it could have been Eduard who saved you from that horrible man? Indeed, the idea is quite romantic! I had forgotten you said that Eduard wore a homburg--did he wear it often? But again, Addie, the homburg is quite popular this year. I can't claim to have a strong conviction of it having been Eduard, but I should hardly look to myself for an answer in this particular. You are the one who knows him. The most convincing evidence, to my mind, is the fact that whoever rescued you must either have been involved in the scheme, or have been watching you closely. Eduard, had he indeed returned to France in hopes of gaining your forgiveness, would very likely have been keen to find you alone, so as to have his chance to speak his mind and ask for your forbearance in the matter of his previous behaviour and abandonment--knowing, of course, that you would have refused to have admitted him into your presence had he called at your uncle's estate. So placed, he would have been well set up to observe your abduction, find you and release you from your imprisonment. I did not like to ask before, Addie, but I am curious ... what became of the man who committed this crime against you? Was he apprehended, or even discovered? Did the Frenchman chase him away? Do not answer, dearest, if it is too unpleasant to think on--but I should feel much better knowing the brute was safely locked up and quite without opportunity to steal you away again. Do not let it upset you, Addie, if he has escaped justice--I am sure your uncle has taken rigorous measures to ensure your future safety, having once realized how vulnerable you were. All the same, I hope the fellow is caught and punished within an inch of his wretched life, and left to mull over his heinous acts during a lifetime of incarceration when said punishment is complete. In fact, I am come close to being in favor of a return to public execution when I think on it! I suppose it was very good of Mr. Rousseau to take you to Montparnasse, but I find it difficult to admire him, Addie. I continue to wonder if he is not passing information to your father, for who can guess what sinister purpose? I will again beg you to be wary of confiding in him, although perhaps my caution is not necessary, as you seem to have discovered for yourself that he is capable of dishonesty and misdirection.
As for the letter to your mother! Why, indeed, should your uncle have it in his keeping? I felt almost indecent at reading the words--such an intimate note. But, as you said, rather less than cheerful. It makes me wonder what other intriguing missives you might find in that most mysterious hat box.
I admit to no little surprise that Peter acted upon my advice to write you--indeed, I had meant it more as an insult than advice, since I was rather irritated at the time, and thought it so unlikely to have any useful effect on him. Do not feel poorly if you were hard on him, for he has certainly been neglectful of you. I do not suppose I shall ever discover his reaction to your reply, since Peter is rarely to be found in the mews, and even more rarely to be found in any mood to converse with me beyond the usual courtesies. If I did not have Stuart, I should be quite lonely for want of his company.
And now, I have not breathed a word of this to anyone else, Addie, but I shall tell you that I have had something of an adventure, albeit of a different sort than I should have liked. I could not stop myself thinking on the fate of Mr. Collins, and concluded that it was really too unkind to allow his poor, broken body to remain unidentified, particularly in regards to his family. I had learnt not to consult Stuart in the matter, he having made his opinion abundantly clear, but I nevertheless felt it my duty to Mrs. Collins, wherever she was, to make it possible for her to properly mourn her son, and give him a decent Christian burial. At first I waited, and monitored the Times on the sly, but after six days had passed and the coroner's inquest had been held, the Metropolitan Police had still failed to determine his identity, despite exhaustive efforts on their part. In preparation for this eventuality I had gleaned what little information I could, without arousing too much suspicion, from Stuart and--as it turns out that Peter also knew Mr. Collins at Oxford--from Peter. His given name was Joseph, after his father, he hailed from Yorkshire, he had been a great friend of Stuart's, and only somewhat known by Peter, who is a couple of years younger than the two of them in any case. Most of this I learned from Peter, whom I thought the safer man to question, given Stuart's disinclination to speak of his old chum. Peter did not say so, but I began to suspect strongly that Mr. Collins had been rather a bad influence on Stuart, that perhaps they two had engaged in less-than-respectable activities together, and that Stuart's dislike of the topic stemmed from regret for this former association. If it were true, this would also explain somewhat Stuart's crude behaviour upon meeting Mr. Collins at the Market. Either way, however, I had succeeded in obtaining the information I required, and betook myself to New Scotland Yard. I know what you are thinking, Addie--that if Stuart himself, who knew Mr. Collins well, could not discern his old friend in the morgue photograph, it hardly seems likely that my own opinion (myself having met the man only once, and spent only a matter of moments in his company) should outweigh his. But what harm could it do? Were I wrong, and Mr. Collins remained alive, I myself would be the only one to suffer, and even then the wound would not effect more than my dignity. So I went, and was duly escorted to the appropriate mortuary by a young cadet, and steeled myself against what I knew must be a gruesome sight. The attendant removed the shroud only so far as to reveal the face, which appeared much the same as it had in the photograph, apart from the fact that the eyes had now been closed. I had prepared for a great shock, Addie, but it did not come. To be sure, it was not overly pleasant to behold the slack, pale face of a man I had last seen full of animation and colour--but neither was it ghastly. He was without his hat, of course, and I saw for the first time that his auburn hair was thick and wavy. The features, however, were undoubtedly a match. It was him, and I informed the cadet without further delay that here was Joseph Collins, son of Joseph Collins of Yorkshire, an Oxford man whom I had met some time ago through a mutual acquaintance. I had decided in advance to leave Stuart out of it, knowing how little he would approve, and I also thought it prudent not to mention how recently I had seen the deceased, not wishing to involve Stuart or myself further in the investigation--especially since we could offer no help, and had really only met him in passing. The cadet took down the information I offered, along with my own name and address, promised to submit my information to the coroner, and warned me that I might be summoned for further questioning at the coroner's request. He then thanked me handsomely for my assistance, inquired as to my next destination, and kindly walked me to the station.
I haven't much else to relate, Addie, as my days are pleasantly filled with exercising the horses and making plans for an October wedding. Sir John is quite set on a ceremony at St. Paul's Knightsbridge, and it is certainly a lovely church, but I have been applying to Stuart in hopes that the wedding could take place somewhere other than London, so that you might be more able to attend. Stuart has an Aunt in Surrey, on a charming estate at Rowledge, who would very likely be amenable to hosting the wedding brunch and sundry at Frensham Heights. Stuart describes the parish church at Frensham, St. Mary the Virgin, as quaint--but nevertheless tells me it is quite as beautiful as any church in London. Now I think on it, however ... if the man who wished to claim you as his wife is now in prison, perhaps there is no need! Do let me know, Addie, because I refuse to marry without you as my Maid of Honor.
Write soon--I am anxious to hear of your return to Montparnasse!
Sincerely,
Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
10 March 1903
Dearest Addie,
Do you really think it could have been Eduard who saved you from that horrible man? Indeed, the idea is quite romantic! I had forgotten you said that Eduard wore a homburg--did he wear it often? But again, Addie, the homburg is quite popular this year. I can't claim to have a strong conviction of it having been Eduard, but I should hardly look to myself for an answer in this particular. You are the one who knows him. The most convincing evidence, to my mind, is the fact that whoever rescued you must either have been involved in the scheme, or have been watching you closely. Eduard, had he indeed returned to France in hopes of gaining your forgiveness, would very likely have been keen to find you alone, so as to have his chance to speak his mind and ask for your forbearance in the matter of his previous behaviour and abandonment--knowing, of course, that you would have refused to have admitted him into your presence had he called at your uncle's estate. So placed, he would have been well set up to observe your abduction, find you and release you from your imprisonment. I did not like to ask before, Addie, but I am curious ... what became of the man who committed this crime against you? Was he apprehended, or even discovered? Did the Frenchman chase him away? Do not answer, dearest, if it is too unpleasant to think on--but I should feel much better knowing the brute was safely locked up and quite without opportunity to steal you away again. Do not let it upset you, Addie, if he has escaped justice--I am sure your uncle has taken rigorous measures to ensure your future safety, having once realized how vulnerable you were. All the same, I hope the fellow is caught and punished within an inch of his wretched life, and left to mull over his heinous acts during a lifetime of incarceration when said punishment is complete. In fact, I am come close to being in favor of a return to public execution when I think on it! I suppose it was very good of Mr. Rousseau to take you to Montparnasse, but I find it difficult to admire him, Addie. I continue to wonder if he is not passing information to your father, for who can guess what sinister purpose? I will again beg you to be wary of confiding in him, although perhaps my caution is not necessary, as you seem to have discovered for yourself that he is capable of dishonesty and misdirection.
As for the letter to your mother! Why, indeed, should your uncle have it in his keeping? I felt almost indecent at reading the words--such an intimate note. But, as you said, rather less than cheerful. It makes me wonder what other intriguing missives you might find in that most mysterious hat box.
I admit to no little surprise that Peter acted upon my advice to write you--indeed, I had meant it more as an insult than advice, since I was rather irritated at the time, and thought it so unlikely to have any useful effect on him. Do not feel poorly if you were hard on him, for he has certainly been neglectful of you. I do not suppose I shall ever discover his reaction to your reply, since Peter is rarely to be found in the mews, and even more rarely to be found in any mood to converse with me beyond the usual courtesies. If I did not have Stuart, I should be quite lonely for want of his company.
And now, I have not breathed a word of this to anyone else, Addie, but I shall tell you that I have had something of an adventure, albeit of a different sort than I should have liked. I could not stop myself thinking on the fate of Mr. Collins, and concluded that it was really too unkind to allow his poor, broken body to remain unidentified, particularly in regards to his family. I had learnt not to consult Stuart in the matter, he having made his opinion abundantly clear, but I nevertheless felt it my duty to Mrs. Collins, wherever she was, to make it possible for her to properly mourn her son, and give him a decent Christian burial. At first I waited, and monitored the Times on the sly, but after six days had passed and the coroner's inquest had been held, the Metropolitan Police had still failed to determine his identity, despite exhaustive efforts on their part. In preparation for this eventuality I had gleaned what little information I could, without arousing too much suspicion, from Stuart and--as it turns out that Peter also knew Mr. Collins at Oxford--from Peter. His given name was Joseph, after his father, he hailed from Yorkshire, he had been a great friend of Stuart's, and only somewhat known by Peter, who is a couple of years younger than the two of them in any case. Most of this I learned from Peter, whom I thought the safer man to question, given Stuart's disinclination to speak of his old chum. Peter did not say so, but I began to suspect strongly that Mr. Collins had been rather a bad influence on Stuart, that perhaps they two had engaged in less-than-respectable activities together, and that Stuart's dislike of the topic stemmed from regret for this former association. If it were true, this would also explain somewhat Stuart's crude behaviour upon meeting Mr. Collins at the Market. Either way, however, I had succeeded in obtaining the information I required, and betook myself to New Scotland Yard. I know what you are thinking, Addie--that if Stuart himself, who knew Mr. Collins well, could not discern his old friend in the morgue photograph, it hardly seems likely that my own opinion (myself having met the man only once, and spent only a matter of moments in his company) should outweigh his. But what harm could it do? Were I wrong, and Mr. Collins remained alive, I myself would be the only one to suffer, and even then the wound would not effect more than my dignity. So I went, and was duly escorted to the appropriate mortuary by a young cadet, and steeled myself against what I knew must be a gruesome sight. The attendant removed the shroud only so far as to reveal the face, which appeared much the same as it had in the photograph, apart from the fact that the eyes had now been closed. I had prepared for a great shock, Addie, but it did not come. To be sure, it was not overly pleasant to behold the slack, pale face of a man I had last seen full of animation and colour--but neither was it ghastly. He was without his hat, of course, and I saw for the first time that his auburn hair was thick and wavy. The features, however, were undoubtedly a match. It was him, and I informed the cadet without further delay that here was Joseph Collins, son of Joseph Collins of Yorkshire, an Oxford man whom I had met some time ago through a mutual acquaintance. I had decided in advance to leave Stuart out of it, knowing how little he would approve, and I also thought it prudent not to mention how recently I had seen the deceased, not wishing to involve Stuart or myself further in the investigation--especially since we could offer no help, and had really only met him in passing. The cadet took down the information I offered, along with my own name and address, promised to submit my information to the coroner, and warned me that I might be summoned for further questioning at the coroner's request. He then thanked me handsomely for my assistance, inquired as to my next destination, and kindly walked me to the station.
I haven't much else to relate, Addie, as my days are pleasantly filled with exercising the horses and making plans for an October wedding. Sir John is quite set on a ceremony at St. Paul's Knightsbridge, and it is certainly a lovely church, but I have been applying to Stuart in hopes that the wedding could take place somewhere other than London, so that you might be more able to attend. Stuart has an Aunt in Surrey, on a charming estate at Rowledge, who would very likely be amenable to hosting the wedding brunch and sundry at Frensham Heights. Stuart describes the parish church at Frensham, St. Mary the Virgin, as quaint--but nevertheless tells me it is quite as beautiful as any church in London. Now I think on it, however ... if the man who wished to claim you as his wife is now in prison, perhaps there is no need! Do let me know, Addie, because I refuse to marry without you as my Maid of Honor.
Write soon--I am anxious to hear of your return to Montparnasse!
Sincerely,
Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London
Letter 31 - Kind Regards
Mr. Peter Bristow
68 Victoria Street
London
27 February 1903
Peter,
How very altruistic of you to write. As a token of our childhood friendship, I am delighted to report to you that I sustained only minor bruising and humiliation. Do not trouble yourself any further for my welfare--I know I shan't trouble myself any further for yours.
Kind regards,
Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
68 Victoria Street
London
27 February 1903
Peter,
How very altruistic of you to write. As a token of our childhood friendship, I am delighted to report to you that I sustained only minor bruising and humiliation. Do not trouble yourself any further for my welfare--I know I shan't trouble myself any further for yours.
Kind regards,
Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
Letter 30 - Montparnasse
Miss Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London
28 February 1903
Dearest Maisie,
Thank you for your words of kindness and comfort. Forgive my lapse in writing you, Maisie, I know you must be distraught with confusion over Stuart's bizarre actions these past weeks. I have always thought fondly of Stuart; but I must admit, it is quite difficult to find much reason in his recent behaviour. Your curious encounter with Mr. Collins certainly brought out the worst in him. I imagine that Mr. Collins was a bit of a rival of sorts for Stuart back at Oxford. Don't mind me saying so, Maisie, but Stuart never was as dedicated in his studies as was Peter; he was always up to some mischief. Perhaps this Mr. Collins was no friend of his at all. Who can say what persuades these men to do what they do? Nevertheless, this does not excuse Stuart's discourteous behaviour towards you. I will say, however, that Stuart seems to have sufficiently redeemed himself.
As for me, dear Maisie, I am getting along a bit better now. 'Tis still difficult to think on the events of my disappearance, but much has transpired since we last corresponded, and I must relay every detail of it to you. Madame Fifi has been bringing me my meals whilst I read in my bed, until these last few days. I have managed to dress myself and attend my meals in the company of my uncle on most occasions as of late. Mr. Westley rarely says more than a brief, "Hello" with the attached, "How are you today, Adeline?" I suspect Mr. Westley has given Madame Fifi explicit instructions as to how to proceed with my health, as each day my regimen seems more and more to resemble the structure I had been used to before. My first inclinations have been to dispose of every remembrance of my recent tribulation and to move ahead, but that has proven much more difficult than it may seem. Some time after I had gone to bed this past Sunday evening, I found myself awakened by a cold draft in the air. I arose out of bed and ventured into the hall as a violent gust of wind came rushing round the eaves of the house, and the door of the guest room down the hall caught my eye as it seemed to move ever so slightly with the gale. I crept softly down the hallway and into the guest room and discovered an open window--the rain streaming inside, pooling on the floor. I hurried toward the beveled glass to close the latch, shielding my face from the cold rain. At that very moment, a memory of the man who had taken me flashed in my mind. I heard him ushering out some lewd women and could feel myself fall in a pile onto the wooden-planked floor. The thundering storm brought my mind back to the present, and I closed and latched the window and turned to go back to my room, intending to rekindle my fire. Before I had left the room, however, its familiarity had triggered an altogether different sort of memory. How could I have forgotten the hat box? I pulled the pretty hat box down from its spot on the shelf, and settled myself upon the bed. After lighting the tapered candle on the night stand, I removed the box's lid. The Christmas card from my mother was still on the top of the stack, but I cast it quickly aside and picked up the next letter to inspect it. It was addressed to my mother--from my father. What possible reason would my Uncle have for keeping a letter that belongs to my mother? I hurriedly opened the flap of the yellowed envelope and began to read. The letter was dated 2 June 1883:
Elyse,
You senseless, beauteous child. How you torment me. In your presence,
I am ignited. In your absence, I am left for want of unthinkable pleasures,
and am nothing more than fire and madness. What choice have I but to
want for you continually? I plead with you not to go through with this.
Walter Westley
It certainly is a strained love note ... I wonder what it is my father meant at the very end? My mother was obviously causing him a great deal of misery at the time. Seems rather odd to imagine him being put out; he has always been the cause of every affliction in our household. Pondering this, I then replaced the letters and the hat box and returned to my own bed. I felt disquieted, but not due to the letter I had read. The mysteries surrounding my family back in London would have to wait. I have long been reconciled to the fact that I am the daughter of the worst sort of man, so his part in my recent bad fortune does not trouble me overmuch. It is not knowing who is responsible for my recent deliverance that seems to tarry in my thoughts. I did not sleep well the remainder of the night, my thoughts and dreams dwelling on my unknown saviour.
By morning my unorganised musings seemed to have arranged themselves quite tidily into a recommendation for a singular course of action--I had come to a decision. Distressing as it was likely to be, I must press my memory for answers. When I had finished my breakfast, and closeted myself again in my room, I sorted through every bit of ugliness I could recall, in hopes of finding some new clue--and then it came to me Maisie: The Frenchman--the one who returned me to Mr. Westley--he said the man who instructed him to bring me home was not French, but a foreigner--he said this man wore a Homburg hat like our king--King Edward .... Eduard .... He came back. The very moment of my realisation, I ran to find Madame Fifi, and asked when to expect Mr. Rousseau for a French lesson, to which she replied, "He will be here in one hour." She looked rather baffled by my elation, as I hurried down the hallway to ready myself. I was already perched on my seat in the library, anxious for Mr. Rousseau to make his way inside the small, book-filled room, when at last he made his entrance, settling himself in his usual chair. I bombarded him at once, "Where is he? When did he return? Why has he not come for me--or at the least come to call--?" Mr. Rousseau raised his hand to silence me, "Who is it that you presume to--no!--you don't believe Steichen came back for you?" There was a long pause, and a look of disbelief upon Mr. Rousseau's face. I offered, "Well, I know we did not part on the most amicable of terms, but he did care for me, and how could I not forgive him after his service to me?" The look of utter disbelief did not fade from Mr. Rousseau. He slowly raised himself from his seat and said, "You mean to conclude that Eduard Steichen has returned to Paris, and that it was he who facilitated your rescue?" The idea sounded so childish coming from Mr. Rousseau. He gathered his books and said, "That is the most ludicrous of thoughts! Eduard was nothing more than a filthy artist who left you disgraced and shamed, and here you sit, like the naive girl that you are, dreaming he has come to make amends." He stopped his tirade. I had hidden my face in my hands--unable to bear his harsh words with any amount of dignity--and was sobbing, "Please, Vaughn, please help me find him ... " He pressed his lips together tightly and seemed to be exerting all his efforts in controlling himself. He drew in a long, deep breath and said, "There is a café in Montparnasse ... I will accompany you there this evening. Steichen could often be found there. But I must warn you, Adeline, you will not find him. He is not here." I, too, rose from my seat and replied, "Well then, if that is true, you should have no reason to be so agitated at the idea." After which Mr. Rousseau left, seeming to have quite forgotten my lesson. My heart is clouded by all that has transpired--I know this, Maisie. Eduard, at the least, feels some obligation to me. I know he is not infallible, but he has shown me more kindness and charity in his return, than any other man I have known, and I intend to return that love.
It was not long before Mr. Rousseau had returned, right on the hour, at four o'clock. He seemed in a much more amiable mood and offered me his arm as we began our long walk to Montparnasse. Since he knew my days have mostly consisted of resting and bothering Andre for sweet crêpes, we talked of his recent lectures at La Sorbonne and of Mr. Rousseau's family in Brittany. It was a most enjoyable start to our evening, and I could not help but find Mr. Rousseau--or Vaughn--as he insists I call him, to be much more inviting than usual--perhaps even genteel. As pleasant as he was, my mind was still firm on finding Eduard, and giving him the chance to find himself forgiven. I did not wish to incite Mr. Rousseau's former mood of disapproval, but could not help inquiring, "Do you think we shall find Eduard out tonight?" Vaughn stopped walking and pulled out his pocket watch. After a moment he replied, "If he is in France, he will be there tonight. We will arrive precisely on time for l’heure verte. Even on the evenings he spent with you, Adeline, he still found time to saunter into Le Dôme Café for a drink with his rabble colleagues." Just before five o'clock, we arrived at the entrance to the Café. It was a cramped space, and the walls were cluttered with all manner of different paintings. The bistro was overflowing, mostly with men huddled around small, round tables, speaking quietly and ruminating on the topics of the artistry and expertise of various fellows. They were an altogether motley group, but with a most surprising fluidity and manner about them as they conversed one with another. Vaughn surveyed the room, and began to fret over his spectacles as he eyed two men in conversation towards the back. Sensing his unrest, I asked, "Do you know those men?" He glanced my way and replied, "Yes." I followed him to the back of the bar where the two men sat; one wore a mustache, the other was clean-shaven. They ceased speaking and watched us as we approached.
The man with the mustache spoke first, "Rousseau ... Have you come for lessons in art? Perhaps sculpting?" Vaughn was clearly uneasy. He retorted, "Van Hecke, when what you do can be immortalized in the halls of a museum in Paris, rather than the walls of this Café, then I shall visit your flat, and inquire with the rats where to find you." It became clear to me what it cost Vaughn to be here, and that he had only brought me at my behest. I felt rather sorry for subjecting Vaughn to this situation, and thought it best to have the question come from me, "Gentlemen, if you don't mind my inquiring, we are looking for Eduard Steichen." The man called Van Hecke glared at Vaughn, "Steichen? What would Steichen want with you?" Then Van Hecke turned to me and most reverently said, "And why would we want to direct this lovely creature into the arms of that American?" I could not help but smile, Maisie. The compliment left me without words, and I hoped Vaughn could come up with some clever response to garner Eduard's whereabouts from these bohemians. I suppose I should take care what I wish for, Maisie, for Vaughn had a clever response, indeed: "Sirs, allow me to introduce Adeline Westley, my wife." Maisie, I went numb. Vaughn continued, "Steichen owes me money." As I stood there dumbfounded, the man with the mustache replied, "Why would Steichen owe anything to you, Rousseau? And are you certain you want to find him? I suspect he might not be enthused about your recent ... acquisition." Vaughn was flushed red with chagrin. He grabbed me by the arm and led me out of the café without another word.
Suffice it to say, I have not spoken to Vaughn over the last few days. By the time I arrived back at the estate, I was erupting with fury over Vaughn's lie, and went straightaway to apprise my uncle. Mr. Westley was not persuaded to discontinue my lessons with Mr. Rousseau, however, he did concede to defer my lessons for two weeks time. This accomplished, I hastened to my room where I sat brooding. How very disappointed I am, Maisie, that all the men in my life, with the exception of Eduard, have turned out to be so subject to fallaciousness. They have all proven themselves so ... ordinary. As I sat there, disconsolate, I remembered Peter's letter. I do not know how much you speak with Peter these days, or if you are aware he has written me. I noticed a different address on the envelope, and I assume he no longer resides with your family in the mews. It was the most formal and unfeeling of missives I could imagine receiving, and was more painful than having received no word from him at all. I'm afraid I was not able to dismiss from my mind the many months he has remained silent. I penned a reply, but I daresay he will not write again. I am afraid the condition of my mood did not lend itself to a pleasant response.
I am all but consumed with returning to Montparnasse--alone--to set those men straight and to find my Eduard.
Yours,
Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
14 Bathurst Mews
London
28 February 1903
Dearest Maisie,
Thank you for your words of kindness and comfort. Forgive my lapse in writing you, Maisie, I know you must be distraught with confusion over Stuart's bizarre actions these past weeks. I have always thought fondly of Stuart; but I must admit, it is quite difficult to find much reason in his recent behaviour. Your curious encounter with Mr. Collins certainly brought out the worst in him. I imagine that Mr. Collins was a bit of a rival of sorts for Stuart back at Oxford. Don't mind me saying so, Maisie, but Stuart never was as dedicated in his studies as was Peter; he was always up to some mischief. Perhaps this Mr. Collins was no friend of his at all. Who can say what persuades these men to do what they do? Nevertheless, this does not excuse Stuart's discourteous behaviour towards you. I will say, however, that Stuart seems to have sufficiently redeemed himself.
As for me, dear Maisie, I am getting along a bit better now. 'Tis still difficult to think on the events of my disappearance, but much has transpired since we last corresponded, and I must relay every detail of it to you. Madame Fifi has been bringing me my meals whilst I read in my bed, until these last few days. I have managed to dress myself and attend my meals in the company of my uncle on most occasions as of late. Mr. Westley rarely says more than a brief, "Hello" with the attached, "How are you today, Adeline?" I suspect Mr. Westley has given Madame Fifi explicit instructions as to how to proceed with my health, as each day my regimen seems more and more to resemble the structure I had been used to before. My first inclinations have been to dispose of every remembrance of my recent tribulation and to move ahead, but that has proven much more difficult than it may seem. Some time after I had gone to bed this past Sunday evening, I found myself awakened by a cold draft in the air. I arose out of bed and ventured into the hall as a violent gust of wind came rushing round the eaves of the house, and the door of the guest room down the hall caught my eye as it seemed to move ever so slightly with the gale. I crept softly down the hallway and into the guest room and discovered an open window--the rain streaming inside, pooling on the floor. I hurried toward the beveled glass to close the latch, shielding my face from the cold rain. At that very moment, a memory of the man who had taken me flashed in my mind. I heard him ushering out some lewd women and could feel myself fall in a pile onto the wooden-planked floor. The thundering storm brought my mind back to the present, and I closed and latched the window and turned to go back to my room, intending to rekindle my fire. Before I had left the room, however, its familiarity had triggered an altogether different sort of memory. How could I have forgotten the hat box? I pulled the pretty hat box down from its spot on the shelf, and settled myself upon the bed. After lighting the tapered candle on the night stand, I removed the box's lid. The Christmas card from my mother was still on the top of the stack, but I cast it quickly aside and picked up the next letter to inspect it. It was addressed to my mother--from my father. What possible reason would my Uncle have for keeping a letter that belongs to my mother? I hurriedly opened the flap of the yellowed envelope and began to read. The letter was dated 2 June 1883:
Elyse,
You senseless, beauteous child. How you torment me. In your presence,
I am ignited. In your absence, I am left for want of unthinkable pleasures,
and am nothing more than fire and madness. What choice have I but to
want for you continually? I plead with you not to go through with this.
Walter Westley
It certainly is a strained love note ... I wonder what it is my father meant at the very end? My mother was obviously causing him a great deal of misery at the time. Seems rather odd to imagine him being put out; he has always been the cause of every affliction in our household. Pondering this, I then replaced the letters and the hat box and returned to my own bed. I felt disquieted, but not due to the letter I had read. The mysteries surrounding my family back in London would have to wait. I have long been reconciled to the fact that I am the daughter of the worst sort of man, so his part in my recent bad fortune does not trouble me overmuch. It is not knowing who is responsible for my recent deliverance that seems to tarry in my thoughts. I did not sleep well the remainder of the night, my thoughts and dreams dwelling on my unknown saviour.
By morning my unorganised musings seemed to have arranged themselves quite tidily into a recommendation for a singular course of action--I had come to a decision. Distressing as it was likely to be, I must press my memory for answers. When I had finished my breakfast, and closeted myself again in my room, I sorted through every bit of ugliness I could recall, in hopes of finding some new clue--and then it came to me Maisie: The Frenchman--the one who returned me to Mr. Westley--he said the man who instructed him to bring me home was not French, but a foreigner--he said this man wore a Homburg hat like our king--King Edward .... Eduard .... He came back. The very moment of my realisation, I ran to find Madame Fifi, and asked when to expect Mr. Rousseau for a French lesson, to which she replied, "He will be here in one hour." She looked rather baffled by my elation, as I hurried down the hallway to ready myself. I was already perched on my seat in the library, anxious for Mr. Rousseau to make his way inside the small, book-filled room, when at last he made his entrance, settling himself in his usual chair. I bombarded him at once, "Where is he? When did he return? Why has he not come for me--or at the least come to call--?" Mr. Rousseau raised his hand to silence me, "Who is it that you presume to--no!--you don't believe Steichen came back for you?" There was a long pause, and a look of disbelief upon Mr. Rousseau's face. I offered, "Well, I know we did not part on the most amicable of terms, but he did care for me, and how could I not forgive him after his service to me?" The look of utter disbelief did not fade from Mr. Rousseau. He slowly raised himself from his seat and said, "You mean to conclude that Eduard Steichen has returned to Paris, and that it was he who facilitated your rescue?" The idea sounded so childish coming from Mr. Rousseau. He gathered his books and said, "That is the most ludicrous of thoughts! Eduard was nothing more than a filthy artist who left you disgraced and shamed, and here you sit, like the naive girl that you are, dreaming he has come to make amends." He stopped his tirade. I had hidden my face in my hands--unable to bear his harsh words with any amount of dignity--and was sobbing, "Please, Vaughn, please help me find him ... " He pressed his lips together tightly and seemed to be exerting all his efforts in controlling himself. He drew in a long, deep breath and said, "There is a café in Montparnasse ... I will accompany you there this evening. Steichen could often be found there. But I must warn you, Adeline, you will not find him. He is not here." I, too, rose from my seat and replied, "Well then, if that is true, you should have no reason to be so agitated at the idea." After which Mr. Rousseau left, seeming to have quite forgotten my lesson. My heart is clouded by all that has transpired--I know this, Maisie. Eduard, at the least, feels some obligation to me. I know he is not infallible, but he has shown me more kindness and charity in his return, than any other man I have known, and I intend to return that love.
It was not long before Mr. Rousseau had returned, right on the hour, at four o'clock. He seemed in a much more amiable mood and offered me his arm as we began our long walk to Montparnasse. Since he knew my days have mostly consisted of resting and bothering Andre for sweet crêpes, we talked of his recent lectures at La Sorbonne and of Mr. Rousseau's family in Brittany. It was a most enjoyable start to our evening, and I could not help but find Mr. Rousseau--or Vaughn--as he insists I call him, to be much more inviting than usual--perhaps even genteel. As pleasant as he was, my mind was still firm on finding Eduard, and giving him the chance to find himself forgiven. I did not wish to incite Mr. Rousseau's former mood of disapproval, but could not help inquiring, "Do you think we shall find Eduard out tonight?" Vaughn stopped walking and pulled out his pocket watch. After a moment he replied, "If he is in France, he will be there tonight. We will arrive precisely on time for l’heure verte. Even on the evenings he spent with you, Adeline, he still found time to saunter into Le Dôme Café for a drink with his rabble colleagues." Just before five o'clock, we arrived at the entrance to the Café. It was a cramped space, and the walls were cluttered with all manner of different paintings. The bistro was overflowing, mostly with men huddled around small, round tables, speaking quietly and ruminating on the topics of the artistry and expertise of various fellows. They were an altogether motley group, but with a most surprising fluidity and manner about them as they conversed one with another. Vaughn surveyed the room, and began to fret over his spectacles as he eyed two men in conversation towards the back. Sensing his unrest, I asked, "Do you know those men?" He glanced my way and replied, "Yes." I followed him to the back of the bar where the two men sat; one wore a mustache, the other was clean-shaven. They ceased speaking and watched us as we approached.
The man with the mustache spoke first, "Rousseau ... Have you come for lessons in art? Perhaps sculpting?" Vaughn was clearly uneasy. He retorted, "Van Hecke, when what you do can be immortalized in the halls of a museum in Paris, rather than the walls of this Café, then I shall visit your flat, and inquire with the rats where to find you." It became clear to me what it cost Vaughn to be here, and that he had only brought me at my behest. I felt rather sorry for subjecting Vaughn to this situation, and thought it best to have the question come from me, "Gentlemen, if you don't mind my inquiring, we are looking for Eduard Steichen." The man called Van Hecke glared at Vaughn, "Steichen? What would Steichen want with you?" Then Van Hecke turned to me and most reverently said, "And why would we want to direct this lovely creature into the arms of that American?" I could not help but smile, Maisie. The compliment left me without words, and I hoped Vaughn could come up with some clever response to garner Eduard's whereabouts from these bohemians. I suppose I should take care what I wish for, Maisie, for Vaughn had a clever response, indeed: "Sirs, allow me to introduce Adeline Westley, my wife." Maisie, I went numb. Vaughn continued, "Steichen owes me money." As I stood there dumbfounded, the man with the mustache replied, "Why would Steichen owe anything to you, Rousseau? And are you certain you want to find him? I suspect he might not be enthused about your recent ... acquisition." Vaughn was flushed red with chagrin. He grabbed me by the arm and led me out of the café without another word.
Suffice it to say, I have not spoken to Vaughn over the last few days. By the time I arrived back at the estate, I was erupting with fury over Vaughn's lie, and went straightaway to apprise my uncle. Mr. Westley was not persuaded to discontinue my lessons with Mr. Rousseau, however, he did concede to defer my lessons for two weeks time. This accomplished, I hastened to my room where I sat brooding. How very disappointed I am, Maisie, that all the men in my life, with the exception of Eduard, have turned out to be so subject to fallaciousness. They have all proven themselves so ... ordinary. As I sat there, disconsolate, I remembered Peter's letter. I do not know how much you speak with Peter these days, or if you are aware he has written me. I noticed a different address on the envelope, and I assume he no longer resides with your family in the mews. It was the most formal and unfeeling of missives I could imagine receiving, and was more painful than having received no word from him at all. I'm afraid I was not able to dismiss from my mind the many months he has remained silent. I penned a reply, but I daresay he will not write again. I am afraid the condition of my mood did not lend itself to a pleasant response.
I am all but consumed with returning to Montparnasse--alone--to set those men straight and to find my Eduard.
Yours,
Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
Letter 29 - Mr. Collins
Miss Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
12 February 1903
Dearest Addie,
It is cruel that we should be apart at a time like this. I cannot express fully the utter helplessness I feel, Addie, while you are in such a delicate state and all that is in my power to do is scribble on bits of paper. If I ever have the misfortune to lay eyes on that presumptuous bastard I shall cheerfully channel all of my strength into damaging every bit of him that I can reach! I have so many questions, Addie, but I do not wish to burden you with them. Perhaps it is better that you do not remember much of your ordeal. The important thing is that you are safe now. And you needn't apologize to me, dearest, for your brazen tongue or anything else. You are right, of course, I am not there, and cannot know the extent of your sufferings. It was rather supercilious of me to assume that I knew more about your uncle and your own mother than you do. It is I who must beg forgiveness, and ask that you not judge me too harshly for my pretentiousness. I hope it is not equally imperious of me to refute your assertion that a marriage to that bastard would be no worse than finding yourself the wife of Mr.Rousseau or the young Mr. Fortescue--you musn't think such a thing, Addie, it is patently untrue! But I do not blame you for feeling disillusioned. I only wish to comfort you, and convince you that all is not lost. Please do not lose hope, Addie.
What Peter thinks of your misadventure I cannot say, for I have not had the opportunity to relate it to him. He has left us, Addie. He did not return for dinner on the evening of the day I overheard his argument with Stuart, nor did he return at all for several more days. Mum and Dad were quite worried, although Dad--being used to Peter's regular absences for travel--took a rather less hysterical approach than Mum. Poor Mum was frantic, but my ungrateful brother had not the decency to inform her that he had taken a small flat in Victoria Street two weeks previously and, I can only assume in a fit of bad temper, chosen that notable day to take up residence there. When he at last deigned to alleviate our fears by honouring us with his presence--or rather, when he at last realized that he really couldn't do without certain personal effects that he had left behind--he had the grace to apologize to Mum for upsetting her, but would not be budged from his decision to leave us. This was not entirely unexpected, as he has threatened it for the better part of a year, ever since he returned from Oxford, but Mum's pleading (and I should think her excellent cooking, no doubt) were enough to keep him home until now. I must admit, Addie, that I had been wracked with worry myself, but my brother felt no need to apologize to me. He departed with those few items he had come to collect, and could only be coaxed into a commitment to return for Sunday dinners after much effort on Mum's part and a rather stern look from Dad. His parting comment, thrown over his shoulder as he took his leave, was, "Don't be anxious if I miss a Sunday or two, Mum, I'll likely be taking a good many overnight excursions for Mr. Morgan." I only just managed to restrain myself from kicking him the rest of the way out of the Mews. I realized at that moment, Addie, as I watched him disappear around the corner, that I could hardly take the vague accusations of such an inconsiderate wretch over the most excellent and worthy conduct of my own dear Stuart, and decided then and there to put the argument from my mind. We have seen Peter only occasionally since that time, and I know Mum suffers because of it, although she attempts to hide it. I shall likely regret telling you this, Addie, but Peter did ask after you--it was the first Sunday he materialized in the Mews for dinner, three weeks ago Sunday. He asked, but I considered him unworthy of knowing--him having ignored you these nine months! I only told him you are "as well as can be expected," and then added, "If you wish to know more--here's an idea, Peter--write to her yourself," and we spoke no more on the subject.
Addie, I have so much of interest to tell you. I hope it will distract you from your current troubles and aide in your speedy recovery. As you may well have guessed, I never did confront Stuart about the things I overheard. Indeed, I had been so concerned about Peter's welfare during those first days after his disappearance that Stuart certainly could not have known that a portion of my anxiety was owing to my doubts concerning himself. But after I made the decision to trust Stuart regardless, my mind was much more at ease. Nothing seemed amiss at all over the days and weeks that followed. Stuart was obliged to spend a good deal of time with his father, Sir John having been in ill health most of the season and Stuart being his favourite companion. But in all the intervening days we succeeded in entertaining ourselves with a variety of outings, visits, and social events. Saturday last I persuaded Stuart to accompany me to Portobello Road, as Emily Carrington had recommended that the particular type of silver napkin ring I was seeking could be obtained for a good price from a certain tradesman who made his living selling his wares at the Market. Stuart and I were having such larks watching a funny old buffer (who was peddling pins and ribbons from a cart) spoon feed and dress his Scottish Terrier exactly as if the old dog were a baby, when Stuart was hailed from the other side of the square. "Hill, is that you, old man?" I looked up to see a tall, rather well-dressed young gentlemen approaching. "Good afternoon," he said genially, extending his hand to Stuart. Stuart hesitated for a fraction of a second before taking it and turned his head slightly in my direction as he said, "Yes, it's been a long time ... ?" "Collins," the young man provided, smiling still more widely. Stuart seemed to flinch a little at the name, but replied quite affably, "Yes, of course ... Collins." The man then turned to me, although his words were directed at Stuart. "And aren't you going to introduce me? If you don't mind my saying so, Hill, she is exquisite. Is she yours?" Stuart, who had been wary up to this point, was suddenly relaxed and seemed almost bored. "You might say so, Collins. May I introduce you to Miss Bristow? Miss Bristow, Mr. Collins. I hope you've been well, old chap. It seems ages since I've seen you." Mr. Collins did not take his eyes from me, nor release my hand, which I had offered after Stuart's introduction. He simply continued to stare at me in such a way as to make me feel rather exposed and uncomfortable. I didn't know why Stuart didn't seem in the least bothered by this forward behaviour, and underneath my discomfiture I became aware of a spark of anger. Finally, Collins relinquished my hand and cast an eye up at Stuart, who was looking particularly nonchalant. "No chance you'll share, then?" Stuart appeared to be preoccupied with something behind me, and I stole a glance over my shoulder to see what had his attention. Addie, I was shocked to see a rather dirty-looking, attractive young girl returning Stuart's stare with interest from across the street. She was hawking jewelry from a small tray hung round her slim neck, although she was presently ignoring the rather plump lady inspecting her wares. I regarded Stuart in open bewilderment for a moment, then schooled my face into a more dignified expression for the benefit of Mr. Collins, who was still waiting for Stuart to answer him, and grinning rather stupidly at him. Tearing his gaze away from the dirty girl, Stuart bestowed an apologetic smile on Mr. Collins and said only, "I don't much fancy a buttered bun, Collins. But to each his own, I say. Well, it's good to see you're alive and well. Are you staying in the city?" "For a short time, yes. I find that the cuisine available in the city improves greatly upon bread and butter pudding. Indeed, I intend to consume as much baisers de Vierge as I can before I take my leave. I should be delighted to see you again--and your charming fiancée." Mr. Collins made a slight bow as he tipped his hat and turned on his heel, eyeing me again and winking at Stuart before he strolled across the street to speak to the wretched girl, who immediately began trying to interest him in a gold ring from her tray. As soon as Mr. Collins was well away from us I did my best to scald Stuart with a look of highest indignation. "I am sure," I said calmly, "you must have an explanation for your outrageous behaviour just now." Stuart merely closed his eyes and turned his face toward the sky, flexing his neck and managing to look supremely unaffected. I began to tremble. Addie, who was this man? My anger was slipping into despair as I looked at my dear Stuart, who was obviously not in the least concerned about the way I had been treated. Attempting to pull myself together, I began timidly, "Stuart, I don't understand--" but he interrupted me almost immediately, and with such hostility that it felt like a physical blow. "No, you bloody well don't understand. You never do. You think because you went to that ridiculous joke of a school that you know what it's like to be a man, but you don't. So I beg you to please keep your pathetically naive opinions and puzzlements to yourself in future. I haven't the patience to bother with them." He had raised his voice, Addie, and I'm sure everyone on the street must have been staring at us. For myself, I could hardly believe my ears. I couldn't seem to form a coherent thought, much less speak, so I simply stood there, looking at the cobblestones, until at length Stuart let out an exasperated snort, grabbed me roughly by the elbow, and steered me off down the street in the opposite direction from Mr. Collins and the girl.
Stuart said nothing more, but turned me in a homeward direction and proceeded to walk swiftly, a little ahead of me, in what I felt to be a ponderously weighty quiet. The journey home, though less than two miles, seemed to me endless. It was as though my very soul was alternately struggling for some form of understanding and solace, then crumpling inward on itself as no help or comfort presented itself. I was rather pathetic, of course, Addie, but Stuart had been my world. I was able to disbelieve Peter's pettish accusations, but this--I had seen this with my own eyes, heard it all too clearly with my own ears! How could I discount my own senses, Addie? And the continuing silence from Stuart was confirming and solidifying my every fear. The closer we drew to the Mews, the more sure I became. Stuart did not love me. Stuart had never truly regarded me very highly, and had now grown tired of me. Each step we took together in silence seemed to stamp these horrifying truths more irrevocably into my agonized consciousness. He would leave me. He would become enamored of someone else, perhaps a high born lady who had not been so ridiculous as to seek an education beyond the ladylike pursuits of music and needlework. It was over. Which is why I was so extraordinarily taken aback when, the moment we left Westbourne for the Mews, Stuart seemed to collapse as if he had been bound and had suddenly found his bonds released. Before I had time to notice that he was no longer walking stonily at my side I looked down to see him crouched on the cobbled street, Addie, clutching the hem of my dress as if he were in agony and the only comfort he could hope for was the touch of the Poiret in his hands. Addie, it was such a shock to see him like that ... but I had been so devastated, so despairing ... I hadn't time to think of anything to say. Our entire acquaintance, our brief but delightful courtship, all of my shining plans for our future lay in smoldering ruins because of what he had just done, and now he was groveling at my feet? I could only stare at him, completely bewildered, as he raised his eyes to my face and said, in the most plaintive tones I have ever heard him use, "Forgive me, Maisie!" It pleased me a little, to see him so repentant, but it also frightened me. I have never seen Stuart so vulnerable, and it made me rather uncomfortable. "I didn't mean a word of it," he buried his face in my skirt so that his next words were muffled, "I beg you, Maisie, please." Unable to stand it any longer, I urged him to get up off the street, but he refused. "Not until you say you have forgiven me." I could hear Dad whistling to himself in the stables, Addie, I knew he might emerge into the alley at any moment, and I couldn't bear the thought of him witnessing this scene. It didn't take me long to make my decision. I knelt down next to Stuart and took his head in my hands, letting my fingers run gently over his shapely ears and his smooth, dark hair. He was so handsome, so utterly without guile in that moment, and in such apparent anguish. I laid my head on his and whispered, "I forgive you, dearest--of course I forgive you! Now please get up." I was not at all sure what to expect, all things considered, but Stuart seemed to recover immediately. He straightened up, lifting me up with his hand round my waist as he did so; he smiled slightly, but looked rather like a man who has just passed through the worst of a terrible illness--content, but with an air of well-earned exhaustion. He kissed my hair fondly, and whispered, "It shan't happen again, Maisie. Never." It was perplexing indeed, but his regret seemed so sincere that my ill feelings melted away as swiftly as they had come, leaving only confusion behind. A little afraid to ask, I managed to stammer, "But, why?" He pulled me close to him, and said, matter-of-factly, "Lost my head, little love. I never did much like Collins at Oxford. He ... inspires the worst in me."
It played out that Stuart had been invited away for dinner that evening with his father and some of his father's friends, so I was left with Mum and Dad to spend the remainder of the day seized by various mental fits of worry and wonder. It was a great relief when, next day, Stuart arrived for tea and was in excellent spirits, despite having injured himself after falling off his horse while out riding with his father. He was the same dear, affectionate, laughing Stuart I had become accustomed to, and no trace of the cruel and arrogant version of yesterday could I detect. It is as Mum told me when I expressed some little of my confusion over his behaviour--"Marriage is much more complex than you are likely to have suspected, Maisie, and men ever more so." So I must conclude that, as long as Stuart does not behave himself poorly on a consistent basis--as long as he recognizes and apologizes for his occasional follies--I must forgive him, and still consider myself fortunate to have gained the affections of a man who can at least recognize his less noble actions and attempt to make up for them. It isn't foolish of me, is it, Addie? Because marrying Stuart doesn't feel like foolishness ... it feels like the most wonderful gift I could have hoped for, in spite of our difficulties. Stuart was an excellent companion the entirety of the evening, for he stayed for dinner as well, although I was rather frustrated at his reaction to an exasperating episode which occurred in the interval between tea and dinner, while Stuart and Dad were discussing the various injuries they had sustained while riding, and both of them were in high humor. I had been listening, thoroughly amused at Stuart's exaggerated reenactment of his most recent injury, when I happened to glance at the day's copy of the Times, which was lying on the chesterfield, I presume where Dad had left it. A familiar face caught my eye, staring vaguely up at me from a small photograph on the open page. It was Mr. Collins, the very same man who had inspired such uncharacteristic rudeness in Stuart. Upon closer inspection of the accompanying article, I realized, to my horror, that the man's body had been discovered, his throat crushed, in a small room above a pub on Wapping Wall. The room had not been let to the dead man, however, for the body had been discovered by the rightful tenant early that morning, when said tenant had arrived home after a night of carousing. Although I had no special affection for Mr. Collins, indeed the memory of him is loathsome to me in the extreme, I could not help but feel a pang of pity for him. How horrible, Addie, for any man. Curiously, the article stated that the man was unidentified. And, more curious still, Stuart exhibited very little interest in the whole affair. When I showed him the picture and expressed the assumption that, surely, he would want to go down to the morgue and identify the poor fellow, he squinted at it for a moment and then said, "Don't excite yourself, Maisie, that's never my old chum Collins. Bit of a ringer, I suppose. That's all," and went back to his conversation with Dad. No matter how I insisted, Addie, he would have none of it--although he was more amused than put out. In fact, he and Dad teased me mercilessly the remainder of the evening, suggesting that my liking for newspaper serials was affecting my good sense, and that I was allowing myself to get caught up in my own dramatic imaginations. At one point Stuart declared that it could hardly have been the man we met, since I had seen him only yesterday, hale and hearty as you please. To which I replied, "A healthy constitution is all well and good, Stuart, but it will hardly protect a man from having his throat bashed in for him!" It was really too vexing. I am sure it was Collins, Addie. I shall never forget that vacant, handsome face. I am not exactly sorry that he is dead, although I wouldn't wish it on him. But it was rather disconcerting to recall his smiling, insipid expression, and then compare it to the empty stare in the morgue photograph.
I'll close here, Addie dearest, for I have spent far too much time in writing this letter already, and I am anxious to post it with all haste, in hopes that it will reach you swiftly and find you well. Please write soon.
Sincerely,
Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
12 February 1903
Dearest Addie,
It is cruel that we should be apart at a time like this. I cannot express fully the utter helplessness I feel, Addie, while you are in such a delicate state and all that is in my power to do is scribble on bits of paper. If I ever have the misfortune to lay eyes on that presumptuous bastard I shall cheerfully channel all of my strength into damaging every bit of him that I can reach! I have so many questions, Addie, but I do not wish to burden you with them. Perhaps it is better that you do not remember much of your ordeal. The important thing is that you are safe now. And you needn't apologize to me, dearest, for your brazen tongue or anything else. You are right, of course, I am not there, and cannot know the extent of your sufferings. It was rather supercilious of me to assume that I knew more about your uncle and your own mother than you do. It is I who must beg forgiveness, and ask that you not judge me too harshly for my pretentiousness. I hope it is not equally imperious of me to refute your assertion that a marriage to that bastard would be no worse than finding yourself the wife of Mr.Rousseau or the young Mr. Fortescue--you musn't think such a thing, Addie, it is patently untrue! But I do not blame you for feeling disillusioned. I only wish to comfort you, and convince you that all is not lost. Please do not lose hope, Addie.
What Peter thinks of your misadventure I cannot say, for I have not had the opportunity to relate it to him. He has left us, Addie. He did not return for dinner on the evening of the day I overheard his argument with Stuart, nor did he return at all for several more days. Mum and Dad were quite worried, although Dad--being used to Peter's regular absences for travel--took a rather less hysterical approach than Mum. Poor Mum was frantic, but my ungrateful brother had not the decency to inform her that he had taken a small flat in Victoria Street two weeks previously and, I can only assume in a fit of bad temper, chosen that notable day to take up residence there. When he at last deigned to alleviate our fears by honouring us with his presence--or rather, when he at last realized that he really couldn't do without certain personal effects that he had left behind--he had the grace to apologize to Mum for upsetting her, but would not be budged from his decision to leave us. This was not entirely unexpected, as he has threatened it for the better part of a year, ever since he returned from Oxford, but Mum's pleading (and I should think her excellent cooking, no doubt) were enough to keep him home until now. I must admit, Addie, that I had been wracked with worry myself, but my brother felt no need to apologize to me. He departed with those few items he had come to collect, and could only be coaxed into a commitment to return for Sunday dinners after much effort on Mum's part and a rather stern look from Dad. His parting comment, thrown over his shoulder as he took his leave, was, "Don't be anxious if I miss a Sunday or two, Mum, I'll likely be taking a good many overnight excursions for Mr. Morgan." I only just managed to restrain myself from kicking him the rest of the way out of the Mews. I realized at that moment, Addie, as I watched him disappear around the corner, that I could hardly take the vague accusations of such an inconsiderate wretch over the most excellent and worthy conduct of my own dear Stuart, and decided then and there to put the argument from my mind. We have seen Peter only occasionally since that time, and I know Mum suffers because of it, although she attempts to hide it. I shall likely regret telling you this, Addie, but Peter did ask after you--it was the first Sunday he materialized in the Mews for dinner, three weeks ago Sunday. He asked, but I considered him unworthy of knowing--him having ignored you these nine months! I only told him you are "as well as can be expected," and then added, "If you wish to know more--here's an idea, Peter--write to her yourself," and we spoke no more on the subject.
Addie, I have so much of interest to tell you. I hope it will distract you from your current troubles and aide in your speedy recovery. As you may well have guessed, I never did confront Stuart about the things I overheard. Indeed, I had been so concerned about Peter's welfare during those first days after his disappearance that Stuart certainly could not have known that a portion of my anxiety was owing to my doubts concerning himself. But after I made the decision to trust Stuart regardless, my mind was much more at ease. Nothing seemed amiss at all over the days and weeks that followed. Stuart was obliged to spend a good deal of time with his father, Sir John having been in ill health most of the season and Stuart being his favourite companion. But in all the intervening days we succeeded in entertaining ourselves with a variety of outings, visits, and social events. Saturday last I persuaded Stuart to accompany me to Portobello Road, as Emily Carrington had recommended that the particular type of silver napkin ring I was seeking could be obtained for a good price from a certain tradesman who made his living selling his wares at the Market. Stuart and I were having such larks watching a funny old buffer (who was peddling pins and ribbons from a cart) spoon feed and dress his Scottish Terrier exactly as if the old dog were a baby, when Stuart was hailed from the other side of the square. "Hill, is that you, old man?" I looked up to see a tall, rather well-dressed young gentlemen approaching. "Good afternoon," he said genially, extending his hand to Stuart. Stuart hesitated for a fraction of a second before taking it and turned his head slightly in my direction as he said, "Yes, it's been a long time ... ?" "Collins," the young man provided, smiling still more widely. Stuart seemed to flinch a little at the name, but replied quite affably, "Yes, of course ... Collins." The man then turned to me, although his words were directed at Stuart. "And aren't you going to introduce me? If you don't mind my saying so, Hill, she is exquisite. Is she yours?" Stuart, who had been wary up to this point, was suddenly relaxed and seemed almost bored. "You might say so, Collins. May I introduce you to Miss Bristow? Miss Bristow, Mr. Collins. I hope you've been well, old chap. It seems ages since I've seen you." Mr. Collins did not take his eyes from me, nor release my hand, which I had offered after Stuart's introduction. He simply continued to stare at me in such a way as to make me feel rather exposed and uncomfortable. I didn't know why Stuart didn't seem in the least bothered by this forward behaviour, and underneath my discomfiture I became aware of a spark of anger. Finally, Collins relinquished my hand and cast an eye up at Stuart, who was looking particularly nonchalant. "No chance you'll share, then?" Stuart appeared to be preoccupied with something behind me, and I stole a glance over my shoulder to see what had his attention. Addie, I was shocked to see a rather dirty-looking, attractive young girl returning Stuart's stare with interest from across the street. She was hawking jewelry from a small tray hung round her slim neck, although she was presently ignoring the rather plump lady inspecting her wares. I regarded Stuart in open bewilderment for a moment, then schooled my face into a more dignified expression for the benefit of Mr. Collins, who was still waiting for Stuart to answer him, and grinning rather stupidly at him. Tearing his gaze away from the dirty girl, Stuart bestowed an apologetic smile on Mr. Collins and said only, "I don't much fancy a buttered bun, Collins. But to each his own, I say. Well, it's good to see you're alive and well. Are you staying in the city?" "For a short time, yes. I find that the cuisine available in the city improves greatly upon bread and butter pudding. Indeed, I intend to consume as much baisers de Vierge as I can before I take my leave. I should be delighted to see you again--and your charming fiancée." Mr. Collins made a slight bow as he tipped his hat and turned on his heel, eyeing me again and winking at Stuart before he strolled across the street to speak to the wretched girl, who immediately began trying to interest him in a gold ring from her tray. As soon as Mr. Collins was well away from us I did my best to scald Stuart with a look of highest indignation. "I am sure," I said calmly, "you must have an explanation for your outrageous behaviour just now." Stuart merely closed his eyes and turned his face toward the sky, flexing his neck and managing to look supremely unaffected. I began to tremble. Addie, who was this man? My anger was slipping into despair as I looked at my dear Stuart, who was obviously not in the least concerned about the way I had been treated. Attempting to pull myself together, I began timidly, "Stuart, I don't understand--" but he interrupted me almost immediately, and with such hostility that it felt like a physical blow. "No, you bloody well don't understand. You never do. You think because you went to that ridiculous joke of a school that you know what it's like to be a man, but you don't. So I beg you to please keep your pathetically naive opinions and puzzlements to yourself in future. I haven't the patience to bother with them." He had raised his voice, Addie, and I'm sure everyone on the street must have been staring at us. For myself, I could hardly believe my ears. I couldn't seem to form a coherent thought, much less speak, so I simply stood there, looking at the cobblestones, until at length Stuart let out an exasperated snort, grabbed me roughly by the elbow, and steered me off down the street in the opposite direction from Mr. Collins and the girl.
Stuart said nothing more, but turned me in a homeward direction and proceeded to walk swiftly, a little ahead of me, in what I felt to be a ponderously weighty quiet. The journey home, though less than two miles, seemed to me endless. It was as though my very soul was alternately struggling for some form of understanding and solace, then crumpling inward on itself as no help or comfort presented itself. I was rather pathetic, of course, Addie, but Stuart had been my world. I was able to disbelieve Peter's pettish accusations, but this--I had seen this with my own eyes, heard it all too clearly with my own ears! How could I discount my own senses, Addie? And the continuing silence from Stuart was confirming and solidifying my every fear. The closer we drew to the Mews, the more sure I became. Stuart did not love me. Stuart had never truly regarded me very highly, and had now grown tired of me. Each step we took together in silence seemed to stamp these horrifying truths more irrevocably into my agonized consciousness. He would leave me. He would become enamored of someone else, perhaps a high born lady who had not been so ridiculous as to seek an education beyond the ladylike pursuits of music and needlework. It was over. Which is why I was so extraordinarily taken aback when, the moment we left Westbourne for the Mews, Stuart seemed to collapse as if he had been bound and had suddenly found his bonds released. Before I had time to notice that he was no longer walking stonily at my side I looked down to see him crouched on the cobbled street, Addie, clutching the hem of my dress as if he were in agony and the only comfort he could hope for was the touch of the Poiret in his hands. Addie, it was such a shock to see him like that ... but I had been so devastated, so despairing ... I hadn't time to think of anything to say. Our entire acquaintance, our brief but delightful courtship, all of my shining plans for our future lay in smoldering ruins because of what he had just done, and now he was groveling at my feet? I could only stare at him, completely bewildered, as he raised his eyes to my face and said, in the most plaintive tones I have ever heard him use, "Forgive me, Maisie!" It pleased me a little, to see him so repentant, but it also frightened me. I have never seen Stuart so vulnerable, and it made me rather uncomfortable. "I didn't mean a word of it," he buried his face in my skirt so that his next words were muffled, "I beg you, Maisie, please." Unable to stand it any longer, I urged him to get up off the street, but he refused. "Not until you say you have forgiven me." I could hear Dad whistling to himself in the stables, Addie, I knew he might emerge into the alley at any moment, and I couldn't bear the thought of him witnessing this scene. It didn't take me long to make my decision. I knelt down next to Stuart and took his head in my hands, letting my fingers run gently over his shapely ears and his smooth, dark hair. He was so handsome, so utterly without guile in that moment, and in such apparent anguish. I laid my head on his and whispered, "I forgive you, dearest--of course I forgive you! Now please get up." I was not at all sure what to expect, all things considered, but Stuart seemed to recover immediately. He straightened up, lifting me up with his hand round my waist as he did so; he smiled slightly, but looked rather like a man who has just passed through the worst of a terrible illness--content, but with an air of well-earned exhaustion. He kissed my hair fondly, and whispered, "It shan't happen again, Maisie. Never." It was perplexing indeed, but his regret seemed so sincere that my ill feelings melted away as swiftly as they had come, leaving only confusion behind. A little afraid to ask, I managed to stammer, "But, why?" He pulled me close to him, and said, matter-of-factly, "Lost my head, little love. I never did much like Collins at Oxford. He ... inspires the worst in me."
It played out that Stuart had been invited away for dinner that evening with his father and some of his father's friends, so I was left with Mum and Dad to spend the remainder of the day seized by various mental fits of worry and wonder. It was a great relief when, next day, Stuart arrived for tea and was in excellent spirits, despite having injured himself after falling off his horse while out riding with his father. He was the same dear, affectionate, laughing Stuart I had become accustomed to, and no trace of the cruel and arrogant version of yesterday could I detect. It is as Mum told me when I expressed some little of my confusion over his behaviour--"Marriage is much more complex than you are likely to have suspected, Maisie, and men ever more so." So I must conclude that, as long as Stuart does not behave himself poorly on a consistent basis--as long as he recognizes and apologizes for his occasional follies--I must forgive him, and still consider myself fortunate to have gained the affections of a man who can at least recognize his less noble actions and attempt to make up for them. It isn't foolish of me, is it, Addie? Because marrying Stuart doesn't feel like foolishness ... it feels like the most wonderful gift I could have hoped for, in spite of our difficulties. Stuart was an excellent companion the entirety of the evening, for he stayed for dinner as well, although I was rather frustrated at his reaction to an exasperating episode which occurred in the interval between tea and dinner, while Stuart and Dad were discussing the various injuries they had sustained while riding, and both of them were in high humor. I had been listening, thoroughly amused at Stuart's exaggerated reenactment of his most recent injury, when I happened to glance at the day's copy of the Times, which was lying on the chesterfield, I presume where Dad had left it. A familiar face caught my eye, staring vaguely up at me from a small photograph on the open page. It was Mr. Collins, the very same man who had inspired such uncharacteristic rudeness in Stuart. Upon closer inspection of the accompanying article, I realized, to my horror, that the man's body had been discovered, his throat crushed, in a small room above a pub on Wapping Wall. The room had not been let to the dead man, however, for the body had been discovered by the rightful tenant early that morning, when said tenant had arrived home after a night of carousing. Although I had no special affection for Mr. Collins, indeed the memory of him is loathsome to me in the extreme, I could not help but feel a pang of pity for him. How horrible, Addie, for any man. Curiously, the article stated that the man was unidentified. And, more curious still, Stuart exhibited very little interest in the whole affair. When I showed him the picture and expressed the assumption that, surely, he would want to go down to the morgue and identify the poor fellow, he squinted at it for a moment and then said, "Don't excite yourself, Maisie, that's never my old chum Collins. Bit of a ringer, I suppose. That's all," and went back to his conversation with Dad. No matter how I insisted, Addie, he would have none of it--although he was more amused than put out. In fact, he and Dad teased me mercilessly the remainder of the evening, suggesting that my liking for newspaper serials was affecting my good sense, and that I was allowing myself to get caught up in my own dramatic imaginations. At one point Stuart declared that it could hardly have been the man we met, since I had seen him only yesterday, hale and hearty as you please. To which I replied, "A healthy constitution is all well and good, Stuart, but it will hardly protect a man from having his throat bashed in for him!" It was really too vexing. I am sure it was Collins, Addie. I shall never forget that vacant, handsome face. I am not exactly sorry that he is dead, although I wouldn't wish it on him. But it was rather disconcerting to recall his smiling, insipid expression, and then compare it to the empty stare in the morgue photograph.
I'll close here, Addie dearest, for I have spent far too much time in writing this letter already, and I am anxious to post it with all haste, in hopes that it will reach you swiftly and find you well. Please write soon.
Sincerely,
Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London
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