Miss Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
29 August 1902
Dearest Addie,
I am so sorry for your suffering! Here I am at home, with my family around me, where everything is safe and familiar (albeit dull), and I complain to you about being lonely. It is a symptom of my selfishness that I can think of my own troubles when you are truly alone (albeit in glamorous Paris!) in a country of foreigners. It is a symptom of my silliness that I should envy your amorous French tutor bearing romantic gifts, and the direness of your situation concerning that horrible man who intends to force you to marry him. It’s only, sometimes I wish for excitement, Addie, even the unpleasant variety – anything to break up the monotony of my days. I am sorry, dear Addie. I will pray for you to find a way to come home.
You are not good enough for Peter?! I must insist that you abandon this nonsense tout de suite. If my brother chooses to make an arse of himself, following Miss Highmore about like a besotted hound on a leash, so be it. But do not let it reflect on you. How can I make this clear to you, Addie? You are worth any number of vapid Frances Highmores – and I beg of you not to forget it.
As for the abominable Mr. Rothschild, you are right, of course, Addie. I should have inquired as to the married name of Luc Bellefeuille’s daughter. I suppose I was too appalled by his tantrum to think logically enough to ask details about the unfortunate lady whose reputation he was defaming. He really was quite improper; Dad was furious with him. Your letter came in good time, Addie, because I was on the point of indignantly refusing an invitation to that very gentleman’s house (if gentleman he can be called). Mr. Rothschild sent a note by way of apology, as it were (his excuse, of all things, was the heat of the day), and invited me to a dinner party tomorrow evening. I must accept the invitation, now, of course, and hope that the other guests (and the cool of the evening) might make for an environment in which my question can be answered with less vulgarity. Dad will never allow it, of course, so I will have to be mysterious as to my plans for tomorrow evening … perhaps Peter can be coaxed into covering for me.
I shall close this letter and post it right away, and I shall write you again day after tomorrow and relate any information I gain from Mr. Rothschild at the dinner party. Take heart, Addie! If you have nothing else, you do have a friend in London who finds it quite effortless to love you.
Sincerely,
Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London
P.S. I expect Ms. Beale would have gone into fits one hundred times over if she were privy to my secret thoughts. Mr. Rousseau, as exotic and clever as he may be, cannot hope to satisfy you if he cannot captivate you with … conversation. – M.B.
Letter 9 - Mr. Rousseau
Miss Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London
19 August 1902
Dearest Maitland,
I am afraid I have only news that has depressed my spirits. I received a letter from my mother and it alone is enough to cause me to mourne. She writes:
My dear child,
It does my heart well to know of your safety. It is urgent for you to be aware that the man whom your father brought home for you to marry still intends to collect on your father's debts. Adeline, you must never return to London. As for Mr. Westley's portrait, pay the little girl no mind, lest you be haunted by her as I am.
Mother
I am more resolute than ever to discover the mystery of the little girl in the painting. Mother should know I am not so easily placated. Whatever could she know of that little girl? And what of the man in London? To never return to England is unthinkable. I know now, my heart is sure, that I may as well be dead to both my father and my mother. Am I truly so hard to love, Maisie?
You might think I would have something of good cheer to recount, but there is only more disappointment. Mr. Westley has insisted I be tutored in French whilst I am here in Paris. My tutor, Mr. Vaughn Rousseau, is a senior student at La Sorbonne. He is handsome enough, although he seems a decidedly rigid man. He is never late; he says, to be late is like unto stealing--only it is the stealing of another's time. His English is quite good, though--I am quite certain he conjugates verbs in his spare time! Dull as he may be, I had thought it such a gift to find a friend in him, until it became clear he means to court me. Always now, he greets me with daisies or a box from Le Chocolatier. What is worse, I believe Mr. Westley to be encouraging the situation. I have caught the glances he and Mr. Rousseau exchange, and it is insulting to my person that the both of them assume I am not keen enough to decipher it. If I ever find myself in such a malleable circumstance as to wed a man after the manner of Mr. Rousseau, I would likely be found dead the following morning; having been bored to death the entirety of my wedding night! Oh, Maisie! What would Ms. Beale say to such language? It cannot be helped. I do not fit into the confines of French high society, no matter how much Mr. Westley should want it. No doubt he has felt the need to step in, since I apparently have made my reputation as the prudish lady of London who does not wish to be kissed when greeted.
I am sorry your visit with Sir Rothschild was all for naught. Perhaps Mr. Bellefeuille's daughter can be found.
As for Peter, I suppose he has made his choice indeed. Even if he did have some secret affection for me, it is apparent that I cannot compare with Frances Highmore and her connexions. It would seem it is Peter that is too good for me--the too bold Westley girl with no inheritance. After all, he could not even manage to return a simple, "hello." Maisie, my heart has taken more than it can bear.
Yours,
Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
14 Bathurst Mews
London
19 August 1902
Dearest Maitland,
I am afraid I have only news that has depressed my spirits. I received a letter from my mother and it alone is enough to cause me to mourne. She writes:
My dear child,
It does my heart well to know of your safety. It is urgent for you to be aware that the man whom your father brought home for you to marry still intends to collect on your father's debts. Adeline, you must never return to London. As for Mr. Westley's portrait, pay the little girl no mind, lest you be haunted by her as I am.
Mother
I am more resolute than ever to discover the mystery of the little girl in the painting. Mother should know I am not so easily placated. Whatever could she know of that little girl? And what of the man in London? To never return to England is unthinkable. I know now, my heart is sure, that I may as well be dead to both my father and my mother. Am I truly so hard to love, Maisie?
You might think I would have something of good cheer to recount, but there is only more disappointment. Mr. Westley has insisted I be tutored in French whilst I am here in Paris. My tutor, Mr. Vaughn Rousseau, is a senior student at La Sorbonne. He is handsome enough, although he seems a decidedly rigid man. He is never late; he says, to be late is like unto stealing--only it is the stealing of another's time. His English is quite good, though--I am quite certain he conjugates verbs in his spare time! Dull as he may be, I had thought it such a gift to find a friend in him, until it became clear he means to court me. Always now, he greets me with daisies or a box from Le Chocolatier. What is worse, I believe Mr. Westley to be encouraging the situation. I have caught the glances he and Mr. Rousseau exchange, and it is insulting to my person that the both of them assume I am not keen enough to decipher it. If I ever find myself in such a malleable circumstance as to wed a man after the manner of Mr. Rousseau, I would likely be found dead the following morning; having been bored to death the entirety of my wedding night! Oh, Maisie! What would Ms. Beale say to such language? It cannot be helped. I do not fit into the confines of French high society, no matter how much Mr. Westley should want it. No doubt he has felt the need to step in, since I apparently have made my reputation as the prudish lady of London who does not wish to be kissed when greeted.
I am sorry your visit with Sir Rothschild was all for naught. Perhaps Mr. Bellefeuille's daughter can be found.
As for Peter, I suppose he has made his choice indeed. Even if he did have some secret affection for me, it is apparent that I cannot compare with Frances Highmore and her connexions. It would seem it is Peter that is too good for me--the too bold Westley girl with no inheritance. After all, he could not even manage to return a simple, "hello." Maisie, my heart has taken more than it can bear.
Yours,
Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
Letter 8 - Wealth and Women
Miss Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
8 August 1902
Dearest Addie,
I considered telling Peter you find him dashing purely for my own entertainment, but decided against it. Addie, it really would not be prudent to feed his ego, nor to encourage him if he intends to pursue you. Peter was sweet when we were girls, but he is not the boy he used to be. I can scarcely believe he is the same lad who used to take us fishing (if you will) on the Thames during the summer holidays. I expect most lads of fourteen imagine they know everything there is to know, but Peter should have learnt better by now, and he hasn’t. Which is why it was extremely satisfying when Australia won the Ashes. And it is also the reason I simply cannot recommend my dear, misguided brother to you, however I may love him. In truth, Addie, he does not deserve you. Further, Miss Highmore, though I have little love for her, does not deserve your hatred. Miss Highmore’s conversational arts are lacking, but her social connections are desirable indeed. Peter made his choice, and if we lose him, the fault is his own. Perhaps I am too hard on Peter, but he has been insufferable lately, and his ingratitude toward Dad upsets me no end.
But on to more interesting events! I must tell you about my visit to Sir Rothschild! It pains me a bit to write “Sir” before his name, Addie. I cannot begin to imagine Her Majesty Queen Victoria conferring such an honour upon that greedy little man. I enlisted Dad to my cause, and he accompanied me on my visit to 73 Palace Court, which is only just across the park, quite close to the Mews. We were met graciously enough, and issued into a fine parlour to wait for our host. When Mr. Rothschild (for he shall get no more “Sir” from me!) entered the room I was sure he was the butler, come to offer refreshments. And yet, alas! ... no tray. He introduced himself and inquired as to how he could be of service. Dad proceeded to explain our errand, and our host was quite keen to discuss “Monsieur Bellefeuille,” but knew nothing of our mysterious Rabbit. He explained that he had been very good friends with “Luc” (for that is Bellefeuille’s given name) as a young man, that they had attended a boarding school together in France. He told us all about the school, called Louis-le-Grand, and it was quite interesting at first. But it soon became apparent that Mr. Rothschild was interested in two things only--wealth and women. The man was married seven times! He went on endlessly about the selfishness of Luc Bellefeuille, who apparently did not will to Mr. Rothschild any part of his rather substantial estate. At length he started insulting the recipients of the aforementioned wealth, Bellefeuille’s only daughter and granddaughter, and he used such language that Dad was compelled to make our excuses so we could escape. It was an interesting but uncomfortable visit. And, in the end, fruitless. I am no nearer to discovering the identity of Rabbit or the one who adored her so.
I must go help Mum with supper, but I will write again soon. I nearly asked your mother about the painting of the child at church, but your father was looking so surly that I lost my nerve. Let me know what she has to say on the subject in her reply to your letter. I miss you, dearest!
Sincerely,
Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London
P.S. Peter favored McLaren for England, and took the train to Manchester to watch the final tests for the Ashes. I should very much liked to have seen his face when England lost--Stuart says it was rather like a baby whose rattle has been snatched from his hand. I am quite sure Stuart is biased, as a distant cousin of his, Clem Hill, played for Australia. But I take great pleasure in the image regardless.
-M.B.
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
8 August 1902
Dearest Addie,
I considered telling Peter you find him dashing purely for my own entertainment, but decided against it. Addie, it really would not be prudent to feed his ego, nor to encourage him if he intends to pursue you. Peter was sweet when we were girls, but he is not the boy he used to be. I can scarcely believe he is the same lad who used to take us fishing (if you will) on the Thames during the summer holidays. I expect most lads of fourteen imagine they know everything there is to know, but Peter should have learnt better by now, and he hasn’t. Which is why it was extremely satisfying when Australia won the Ashes. And it is also the reason I simply cannot recommend my dear, misguided brother to you, however I may love him. In truth, Addie, he does not deserve you. Further, Miss Highmore, though I have little love for her, does not deserve your hatred. Miss Highmore’s conversational arts are lacking, but her social connections are desirable indeed. Peter made his choice, and if we lose him, the fault is his own. Perhaps I am too hard on Peter, but he has been insufferable lately, and his ingratitude toward Dad upsets me no end.
But on to more interesting events! I must tell you about my visit to Sir Rothschild! It pains me a bit to write “Sir” before his name, Addie. I cannot begin to imagine Her Majesty Queen Victoria conferring such an honour upon that greedy little man. I enlisted Dad to my cause, and he accompanied me on my visit to 73 Palace Court, which is only just across the park, quite close to the Mews. We were met graciously enough, and issued into a fine parlour to wait for our host. When Mr. Rothschild (for he shall get no more “Sir” from me!) entered the room I was sure he was the butler, come to offer refreshments. And yet, alas! ... no tray. He introduced himself and inquired as to how he could be of service. Dad proceeded to explain our errand, and our host was quite keen to discuss “Monsieur Bellefeuille,” but knew nothing of our mysterious Rabbit. He explained that he had been very good friends with “Luc” (for that is Bellefeuille’s given name) as a young man, that they had attended a boarding school together in France. He told us all about the school, called Louis-le-Grand, and it was quite interesting at first. But it soon became apparent that Mr. Rothschild was interested in two things only--wealth and women. The man was married seven times! He went on endlessly about the selfishness of Luc Bellefeuille, who apparently did not will to Mr. Rothschild any part of his rather substantial estate. At length he started insulting the recipients of the aforementioned wealth, Bellefeuille’s only daughter and granddaughter, and he used such language that Dad was compelled to make our excuses so we could escape. It was an interesting but uncomfortable visit. And, in the end, fruitless. I am no nearer to discovering the identity of Rabbit or the one who adored her so.
I must go help Mum with supper, but I will write again soon. I nearly asked your mother about the painting of the child at church, but your father was looking so surly that I lost my nerve. Let me know what she has to say on the subject in her reply to your letter. I miss you, dearest!
Sincerely,
Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London
P.S. Peter favored McLaren for England, and took the train to Manchester to watch the final tests for the Ashes. I should very much liked to have seen his face when England lost--Stuart says it was rather like a baby whose rattle has been snatched from his hand. I am quite sure Stuart is biased, as a distant cousin of his, Clem Hill, played for Australia. But I take great pleasure in the image regardless.
-M.B.
Letter 7 - Of Parents and Children
Miss Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London
23 July 1902
Dearest Maitland,
I should like nothing more than to switch places with you. I should be quite pleased to argue with Peter in the park. Why, arguing with Peter is one of my most favourite pastimes! Remember our school days, not so many years removed? Peter always had the answers to all the world's questions, didn't he? My fondest memories are of the summers when we were just girls and of the time I spent with you and your family. I remember one warm day when the three of us (you, Peter and I) lay on the lawn daydreaming of what the future would hold as we laughed at the folly of our own whimsical ideas. I daresay Peter has grown into himself since those days--the two of us have, as well, haven't we? You are much too harsh to compare Peter to an arthropod! Peter can be quite dashing. I'm quite certain Miss Highmore does not challenge the all-knowing Peter, and it tickles me to think of their lacking conversations. She no doubt fills his head with mindless gossip and talk of tea parties and such. I hate her for taking him from us!
I'm really not meant for this life in Paris, Maisie. You would be much better suited to attending balls and being adorned in fine things. I can see you now, dancing with Julien, coyly reprimanding his casual advances, and thereby making him chase you all the more! I, on the other hand, ran off like a silly child. Should you ever come to France I would make arrangements for the two of you to meet. I'm sure the passionate Julien would be quite charmed with your fairness and allure, all cleverness aside!
Also, I wrote to my mother concerning the child. 'Twas a difficult letter to write, indeed; full of apologies for my leaving, and begging her forgiveness in the matter. I casually inquired if she knew anything about the portrait of the young child in Mr. Westley's home. I asked how father was, if he was very much enraged by my leaving (although I feel sure I already know the answer to this). We shall see.
I am ever so anxious to hear of your visit with Mr. Rothschild. For now, I shall continue to explore Paris and try to find some happiness in this summer without you. And lastly, do make sure to tell Peter that I stand squarely on the side of his mother concerning the Australians.
Yours,
Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
14 Bathurst Mews
London
23 July 1902
Dearest Maitland,
I should like nothing more than to switch places with you. I should be quite pleased to argue with Peter in the park. Why, arguing with Peter is one of my most favourite pastimes! Remember our school days, not so many years removed? Peter always had the answers to all the world's questions, didn't he? My fondest memories are of the summers when we were just girls and of the time I spent with you and your family. I remember one warm day when the three of us (you, Peter and I) lay on the lawn daydreaming of what the future would hold as we laughed at the folly of our own whimsical ideas. I daresay Peter has grown into himself since those days--the two of us have, as well, haven't we? You are much too harsh to compare Peter to an arthropod! Peter can be quite dashing. I'm quite certain Miss Highmore does not challenge the all-knowing Peter, and it tickles me to think of their lacking conversations. She no doubt fills his head with mindless gossip and talk of tea parties and such. I hate her for taking him from us!
I'm really not meant for this life in Paris, Maisie. You would be much better suited to attending balls and being adorned in fine things. I can see you now, dancing with Julien, coyly reprimanding his casual advances, and thereby making him chase you all the more! I, on the other hand, ran off like a silly child. Should you ever come to France I would make arrangements for the two of you to meet. I'm sure the passionate Julien would be quite charmed with your fairness and allure, all cleverness aside!
Also, I wrote to my mother concerning the child. 'Twas a difficult letter to write, indeed; full of apologies for my leaving, and begging her forgiveness in the matter. I casually inquired if she knew anything about the portrait of the young child in Mr. Westley's home. I asked how father was, if he was very much enraged by my leaving (although I feel sure I already know the answer to this). We shall see.
I am ever so anxious to hear of your visit with Mr. Rothschild. For now, I shall continue to explore Paris and try to find some happiness in this summer without you. And lastly, do make sure to tell Peter that I stand squarely on the side of his mother concerning the Australians.
Yours,
Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
Letter 6 - Exile
Miss Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
11 July 1902
Dearest Addie,
It all sounds so terribly romantic on paper, but I suppose the reality of crying your eyes out at a Paris ball is not something I should envy. I do, though, Addie. I know I shouldn’t, but I envy your exotic Julien and your exquisite ball gown and even your puzzle of an uncle. Do you ever wish we could switch places? Would you rather be sitting in the park in an everyday brown frock, as I am, after a long and tedious day of listening to Peter and Mum argue about the reputed talent of certain cricket players (Mum insists that the Australians will take home the Ashes this year, Peter begs to differ), writing a letter while the sun sets over the pond? I suppose it is better than being exiled, and I do love London, but my life here is so fantastically ordinary that I find myself daydreaming about the lights of Paris, sultry evenings and summer gowns, and all the fun we could have if we were together.
I’m sure Miss Hoity-Toity Highmore would be scandalized if she knew she had a rival for Peter’s affections, but in all truth she is much more boring than she is beautiful or clever. Not that Peter values cleverness in a girl, until recently, it seems. Perhaps he is tiring of the slow and insidious torture that is an evening of conversation with Frances Highmore. At any rate, the idea of you and Peter together is endlessly hilarious to me. All I can imagine is a great, gangly insect walking hand in hand with a perfect porcelain doll. Besides, Peter may have better taste than I once suspected, but, honestly, if his nose gets any higher in the air he will suffocate for lack of atmosphere. I did say hello to him for you and he looked quite startled over it, the shock dissolving into a sort of guilty nervousness until he finally mumbled something about, “really should be going,” and exited the room. Addie, it is the best entertainment I’ve had since you left me here alone.
In light of my current state of perpetual boredom, I am delighted to have a destination to attach to my quest for the identity of Rabbit and her admirer. I shall plan a visit to Sir Rothschild forthwith and relate the adventure in my next letter.
Addie, I find myself envying even your discomfiture at being doubly kissed by a handsome French gentleman. I am lonely as ever.
Sincerely yours,
Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
11 July 1902
Dearest Addie,
It all sounds so terribly romantic on paper, but I suppose the reality of crying your eyes out at a Paris ball is not something I should envy. I do, though, Addie. I know I shouldn’t, but I envy your exotic Julien and your exquisite ball gown and even your puzzle of an uncle. Do you ever wish we could switch places? Would you rather be sitting in the park in an everyday brown frock, as I am, after a long and tedious day of listening to Peter and Mum argue about the reputed talent of certain cricket players (Mum insists that the Australians will take home the Ashes this year, Peter begs to differ), writing a letter while the sun sets over the pond? I suppose it is better than being exiled, and I do love London, but my life here is so fantastically ordinary that I find myself daydreaming about the lights of Paris, sultry evenings and summer gowns, and all the fun we could have if we were together.
I’m sure Miss Hoity-Toity Highmore would be scandalized if she knew she had a rival for Peter’s affections, but in all truth she is much more boring than she is beautiful or clever. Not that Peter values cleverness in a girl, until recently, it seems. Perhaps he is tiring of the slow and insidious torture that is an evening of conversation with Frances Highmore. At any rate, the idea of you and Peter together is endlessly hilarious to me. All I can imagine is a great, gangly insect walking hand in hand with a perfect porcelain doll. Besides, Peter may have better taste than I once suspected, but, honestly, if his nose gets any higher in the air he will suffocate for lack of atmosphere. I did say hello to him for you and he looked quite startled over it, the shock dissolving into a sort of guilty nervousness until he finally mumbled something about, “really should be going,” and exited the room. Addie, it is the best entertainment I’ve had since you left me here alone.
In light of my current state of perpetual boredom, I am delighted to have a destination to attach to my quest for the identity of Rabbit and her admirer. I shall plan a visit to Sir Rothschild forthwith and relate the adventure in my next letter.
Addie, I find myself envying even your discomfiture at being doubly kissed by a handsome French gentleman. I am lonely as ever.
Sincerely yours,
Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London
Letter 5 - The Ball in Marseille
Miss Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London
30 June 1902
Dear Maisie,
Your Peter was looking at my letters? I'm quite sure you are mistaken. I've had word of Miss Highmore and her family all the way here in Paris. I'm sure she's everything Peter could hope for. Just to imagine Peter and myself together would be . . . it doesn't matter. The fact remains that I'm nothing more than a runaway, Maisie.
As for the ball, I shall leave nothing out! The seamstress and Madame Fifi spent hours picking out fabric and embellishments for the dress. The neckline was uncomfortably low and the corset tight, as usual. The hairdresser arranged my hair so that it fell in a waterfall of curls around my shoulders. We arrived in Marseille to Admiral Jean Baptiste Fortescue's mansion. The Admiral himself is a pompous old naval man, said to have served under Napoleon III. Mr. Westley and I entered the grande ballroom to find lively music and dancing already underway. The moment I entered the ballroom I was shocked at the boldness of the men with the women. They stood so close, whispering and laughing as they danced.
As I stood in the doorway a handsome young man walked straight up to me and, without warning, possessed my face with both of his hands and kissed me on each cheek. This is not in jest! I'm sure my colouring matched the heavy rouged cheeks of the other women! The young man seemed to notice my unrest and I said to him with my hand on my cheek, "I'm sorry, sir, but we are not accustomed to such familiarities in London." The admiral's son (for that was who was causing this great disturbance within me) then took my hand and kissed it and re-introduced himself to me as Julien Fortescue, no doubt trying to rectify his mistake (while only making it worse, naturally). I said I was pleased to make his acquaintance and off he went to greet his other feminine guests. Oh, Maisie! I felt like such a ninny!
I daresay my pride was a bit wounded at the sight of the young Mr. Fortescue greeting all of his guests in that very same manner, even the men. Madame Fifi says it is but a customary French hello, nothing more. Near the end of the evening my eyes caught Julien's and before I could look away he started making his way toward me. He asked for a dance and although I had every intention of denying him, before I could say no he had his arm about my waist and was sliding his other hand up my arm to meet my hand. He drew me in closer until I could feel him breathing. He asked in his broken English how I liked Paris, as if his advances meant nothing. All at once I knew I did not want to be in his arms a moment longer. The emotions of the past few weeks all came together at once, mingling with the intensity of the night. Feeling a man so close, but not having him be the one that I want, missing my terrible family, missing London and missing you, I excused myself and ran off to the balcony. The tears came in a constant flow. What I wanted more than anything was to be rescued from this place and come home. Then I heard the slow and steady pace of Mr. Westley coming to fetch me to take me home. Upon seeing my condition he said, "What can I do to ease your burdens, Adeline?" Knowing it would be unwise to return to London so soon, I said, "Do you know much about the family who occupied the Bellefeuille Estate in Dorset?" Mr. Westley looked down at the ground and replied, "I shall see what I can find." The next morning I found a note on my pillow (in rather atrocious handwriting) that read:
Bellefeuilles of Dorset --
write Sir Hugh Rothschild
73 Palace Court, Kensington
London
I miss you without measure and hope this little clue can help you to find your Rabbit. I shall write my mother as you suggested about the child. And do say hello to Peter for me.
Yours,
Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
14 Bathurst Mews
London
30 June 1902
Dear Maisie,
Your Peter was looking at my letters? I'm quite sure you are mistaken. I've had word of Miss Highmore and her family all the way here in Paris. I'm sure she's everything Peter could hope for. Just to imagine Peter and myself together would be . . . it doesn't matter. The fact remains that I'm nothing more than a runaway, Maisie.
As for the ball, I shall leave nothing out! The seamstress and Madame Fifi spent hours picking out fabric and embellishments for the dress. The neckline was uncomfortably low and the corset tight, as usual. The hairdresser arranged my hair so that it fell in a waterfall of curls around my shoulders. We arrived in Marseille to Admiral Jean Baptiste Fortescue's mansion. The Admiral himself is a pompous old naval man, said to have served under Napoleon III. Mr. Westley and I entered the grande ballroom to find lively music and dancing already underway. The moment I entered the ballroom I was shocked at the boldness of the men with the women. They stood so close, whispering and laughing as they danced.
As I stood in the doorway a handsome young man walked straight up to me and, without warning, possessed my face with both of his hands and kissed me on each cheek. This is not in jest! I'm sure my colouring matched the heavy rouged cheeks of the other women! The young man seemed to notice my unrest and I said to him with my hand on my cheek, "I'm sorry, sir, but we are not accustomed to such familiarities in London." The admiral's son (for that was who was causing this great disturbance within me) then took my hand and kissed it and re-introduced himself to me as Julien Fortescue, no doubt trying to rectify his mistake (while only making it worse, naturally). I said I was pleased to make his acquaintance and off he went to greet his other feminine guests. Oh, Maisie! I felt like such a ninny!
I daresay my pride was a bit wounded at the sight of the young Mr. Fortescue greeting all of his guests in that very same manner, even the men. Madame Fifi says it is but a customary French hello, nothing more. Near the end of the evening my eyes caught Julien's and before I could look away he started making his way toward me. He asked for a dance and although I had every intention of denying him, before I could say no he had his arm about my waist and was sliding his other hand up my arm to meet my hand. He drew me in closer until I could feel him breathing. He asked in his broken English how I liked Paris, as if his advances meant nothing. All at once I knew I did not want to be in his arms a moment longer. The emotions of the past few weeks all came together at once, mingling with the intensity of the night. Feeling a man so close, but not having him be the one that I want, missing my terrible family, missing London and missing you, I excused myself and ran off to the balcony. The tears came in a constant flow. What I wanted more than anything was to be rescued from this place and come home. Then I heard the slow and steady pace of Mr. Westley coming to fetch me to take me home. Upon seeing my condition he said, "What can I do to ease your burdens, Adeline?" Knowing it would be unwise to return to London so soon, I said, "Do you know much about the family who occupied the Bellefeuille Estate in Dorset?" Mr. Westley looked down at the ground and replied, "I shall see what I can find." The next morning I found a note on my pillow (in rather atrocious handwriting) that read:
Bellefeuilles of Dorset --
write Sir Hugh Rothschild
73 Palace Court, Kensington
London
I miss you without measure and hope this little clue can help you to find your Rabbit. I shall write my mother as you suggested about the child. And do say hello to Peter for me.
Yours,
Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
Letter 4 - Admiration
Miss Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
11 June 1902
My dear Addie,
I suppose you are not completely mollified by a new dress,
but aren’t you at least a teensy bit excited? I would
never ask Dad to present me to society, he would laugh
and tell me I’d have to trade in my books for socialite
rags. And of course I don’t want to be just pretty and
petted and admired for my clothes . . . but I can’t help
liking beautiful things. You must tell me all about the
fitting - Emily Carrington says the new Paris gowns
are divine (and she would know). Will you dance with
French young men, then? Are there many English boys
in Paris? Students, perhaps? I wouldn’t object to a
dance with a French fellow, but the conversation might
be a bit lacking. If only I could come to Paris and
attend the ball with you! I am still scheming, but I
haven’t come up with any brilliant devices yet.
I wonder if you could find out about the little girl in
the picture by writing to your mother? Your father is more
likely to know, but I expect he is not particularly pleased
with you at the moment. He may not know himself, if
he and his brother parted ways before the child existed.
Mysteries abound! I have not made any progress discov-
ering the previous owner of the old copy of Wuthering
Heights. I made a pilgrimage down to Holywell and
asked the proprietor at the shoppe, and he was good enough
to tell me it was obtained from the Dorset estate of a
gentleman called Bellefeuille, a foreigner who had only
lived at the estate for six or seven years. I suppose he
spoke English, but somehow I don’t think it could have
been him. He probably acquired it from the writer of
the inscription, or from Rabbit herself. I’ll have to do
more digging - and heaven knows I’ll have the time.
Another little mystery, and this will amuse you, I think -
yesterday I caught Peter perusing your little stack of
letters to me. I was so shocked I didn’t even scold him
for invading my privacy. He dropped the one he was
holding at once and seemed to be pretending to look
for something else, then abruptly left my presence,
muttering something about “where is that invitation
Frances sent over.” Addie, as soon as I recovered from
the shock I laughed myself silly. Why, after all, would
Peter be looking for his invitation on my dresser? My
best guess is that the illustrious Miss Highmore, however
popular she may be among London’s high society, is not
quite as interesting to Peter as a certain Miss Westley
of Paris. If so, Peter is not so much of a lost cause
as I had come to believe, Frances Highmore to the
contrary notwithstanding. After all, even a self-important
graduate of Oxford must have some redeeming qualities.
Perhaps Peter’s saving grace is his secret admiration
for you.
Addie, I’m so glad we can write one another, but it is
hardly enough. I miss you every day, and can hardly turn
a step in London without remembering one of our many
adventures in these streets. Cheltenham seems ages ago,
although it has been less than two months since graduation.
Don’t forget me once you are inducted into the heady
swirl of glamour that is French society. I am lonely in
the crowds at all our old haunts. Write soon, dear.
Yours sincerely,
Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
11 June 1902
My dear Addie,
I suppose you are not completely mollified by a new dress,
but aren’t you at least a teensy bit excited? I would
never ask Dad to present me to society, he would laugh
and tell me I’d have to trade in my books for socialite
rags. And of course I don’t want to be just pretty and
petted and admired for my clothes . . . but I can’t help
liking beautiful things. You must tell me all about the
fitting - Emily Carrington says the new Paris gowns
are divine (and she would know). Will you dance with
French young men, then? Are there many English boys
in Paris? Students, perhaps? I wouldn’t object to a
dance with a French fellow, but the conversation might
be a bit lacking. If only I could come to Paris and
attend the ball with you! I am still scheming, but I
haven’t come up with any brilliant devices yet.
I wonder if you could find out about the little girl in
the picture by writing to your mother? Your father is more
likely to know, but I expect he is not particularly pleased
with you at the moment. He may not know himself, if
he and his brother parted ways before the child existed.
Mysteries abound! I have not made any progress discov-
ering the previous owner of the old copy of Wuthering
Heights. I made a pilgrimage down to Holywell and
asked the proprietor at the shoppe, and he was good enough
to tell me it was obtained from the Dorset estate of a
gentleman called Bellefeuille, a foreigner who had only
lived at the estate for six or seven years. I suppose he
spoke English, but somehow I don’t think it could have
been him. He probably acquired it from the writer of
the inscription, or from Rabbit herself. I’ll have to do
more digging - and heaven knows I’ll have the time.
Another little mystery, and this will amuse you, I think -
yesterday I caught Peter perusing your little stack of
letters to me. I was so shocked I didn’t even scold him
for invading my privacy. He dropped the one he was
holding at once and seemed to be pretending to look
for something else, then abruptly left my presence,
muttering something about “where is that invitation
Frances sent over.” Addie, as soon as I recovered from
the shock I laughed myself silly. Why, after all, would
Peter be looking for his invitation on my dresser? My
best guess is that the illustrious Miss Highmore, however
popular she may be among London’s high society, is not
quite as interesting to Peter as a certain Miss Westley
of Paris. If so, Peter is not so much of a lost cause
as I had come to believe, Frances Highmore to the
contrary notwithstanding. After all, even a self-important
graduate of Oxford must have some redeeming qualities.
Perhaps Peter’s saving grace is his secret admiration
for you.
Addie, I’m so glad we can write one another, but it is
hardly enough. I miss you every day, and can hardly turn
a step in London without remembering one of our many
adventures in these streets. Cheltenham seems ages ago,
although it has been less than two months since graduation.
Don’t forget me once you are inducted into the heady
swirl of glamour that is French society. I am lonely in
the crowds at all our old haunts. Write soon, dear.
Yours sincerely,
Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London
Letter 3 - The Painting in the Study
Miss Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London
31 May 1902
Dearest Maisie,
To think, the cheek of that Mr. Hall! He always was a rather raucous young fellow. All the same, you must find some flattery in his attention to you. Heaven knows any other girl from Cheltenham would.
As for me, I spend most of my time wandering the grand halls of Mr. Westley's large estate. There is one room I find to be a bit curious, though. It's quite empty, Maisie, all except a sturdy chair and a single portrait of a very young girl, a child of only a few years, which sits on the mantle above the fireplace. Upon examining it a bit closer I was hastily shown the way out by the maid. She was quite rigid in informing me that the room was Mr. Westley's private study, and I shan't be allowed to return to it. Seems a rather odd study. No books, nor even a desk to speak of. Perhaps there is a soft spot in Mr. Westley's unfeeling heart after all. I cannot help but wonder, was it a child lost to consumption? Maybe she lives still, somewhere unbeknownst to any of us along with a former Missus Westley? 'Tis a mystery not unlike that of your "Rabbit." However do you propose to find the author of the inscription? Well, one thing is for certain, if anyone might detect its origins that would be you, my dear Maisie!
My other news is that Mr. Westley means to present me to society as his niece at a ball that is to be attended by some prominent generals with which my uncle conducts his business affairs. Madam Fifette (or Fifi as I call her, which drives her mad) is the head mistress of the house and has already arranged for a fitting for my dress.
Do not delay in responding as you are my only comfort and solace.
Yours,
Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
14 Bathurst Mews
London
31 May 1902
Dearest Maisie,
To think, the cheek of that Mr. Hall! He always was a rather raucous young fellow. All the same, you must find some flattery in his attention to you. Heaven knows any other girl from Cheltenham would.
As for me, I spend most of my time wandering the grand halls of Mr. Westley's large estate. There is one room I find to be a bit curious, though. It's quite empty, Maisie, all except a sturdy chair and a single portrait of a very young girl, a child of only a few years, which sits on the mantle above the fireplace. Upon examining it a bit closer I was hastily shown the way out by the maid. She was quite rigid in informing me that the room was Mr. Westley's private study, and I shan't be allowed to return to it. Seems a rather odd study. No books, nor even a desk to speak of. Perhaps there is a soft spot in Mr. Westley's unfeeling heart after all. I cannot help but wonder, was it a child lost to consumption? Maybe she lives still, somewhere unbeknownst to any of us along with a former Missus Westley? 'Tis a mystery not unlike that of your "Rabbit." However do you propose to find the author of the inscription? Well, one thing is for certain, if anyone might detect its origins that would be you, my dear Maisie!
My other news is that Mr. Westley means to present me to society as his niece at a ball that is to be attended by some prominent generals with which my uncle conducts his business affairs. Madam Fifette (or Fifi as I call her, which drives her mad) is the head mistress of the house and has already arranged for a fitting for my dress.
Do not delay in responding as you are my only comfort and solace.
Yours,
Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
Letter 2 - Inscription
Miss Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
17 May 1902
Dearest Adeline,
Oh, Addie, how can you stand it? Every time I think of your father I just want to smash his smug face! And I know it’s not ladylike, and Ms. Beale would have apoplexy if she knew I was thinking any such thing, but I can’t help it. I hate him! I hate him! How could he do this to you? And I’m selfish, Addie, because I hate him all the more for taking you away from me. I can’t imagine this summer without you. Peter will tease my life out for being home all day long, and I have no hope of convincing dad to let me come to see you. At least you are safe from that horrible old man. Dad warned me not to cause a scene at church when I saw your family, and I bit my lip the entire sermon to keep from standing up and pointing at him and calling him a bastard to his face! I’m sorry to talk so rudely of your family, Addie, but you know I love you. I miss you so! You must write me as often as you can, and tell me of life in Paris.
Life here is boring at best, and not worth relating except for the little adventure I had two nights ago. Dad and Mum and Peter had gone out for the evening to a play at the Britannia, so I betook myself to my favorite haunt on Holywell Street Strand, the secondhand booksellers with no name on the shoppe. Dad had expressly forbidden my going out alone, but you know how I hate to be cooped up, and I wasn’t going to sit and watch some silly play with Peter and his new girl-about-town (Frances Highmore of the Hoxton Highmores, and her name is the least obnoxious thing about her). Anyhow, I was browsing amongst the shoppe’s newest acquisitions from an estate sale and I found a dog-eared copy of Wuthering Heights, an early copy by “Ellis Bell.” You know how I love the story, and this particular copy seemed to have a story of its own, so I bought it (for much less than it is worth, I daresay) and went straightway to the park to peruse it further. I found, much to my delight, that it was inscribed with a sweet, cryptic note on the blank half of a page near the end of the book: “To my little Rabbit, whom I love with all my heart, and who holds my future in the depths of her fathomless eyes.” It is signed illegibly and dated “Oct. 1848.” How charming, don’t you think? I was immediately absorbed with the idea of discovering who this “Rabbit” is, and who loved her so much. I was thus distracted when I gradually became aware of a group of revelers making their way through the park. Indeed, it was now dusk and I could hardly see to read, so I got up to make my way home to the Mews. This action placed me in the direct path of the aforementioned revelers, and as they gained on me I realized that Stuart Hill was among them. His voice is difficult to mistake, as you might well remember. I dropped my head and increased my pace, but they had seen me and called out for me to join them if I would. I wouldn’t, of course, but this was hardly a polite way to respond, so I feigned not to have heard and kept walking. Stuart must have recognized me, because he called out, “Ah, the lady is an intellectual, and not to be disturbed – see, she carries a book.” Of course he makes sport of all the girls who attended Cheltenham, and one might say he can hardly be blamed for adopting his father’s prejudices when he had no mother to raise him properly, but, Addie, I was so mortified I couldn’t speak. To be mocked in such a way, in public, no less, just made my blood boil. And so I regained my voice, and turned around to face him, and did not reign in my temper as I should have. I called him a dotty old man, and said that if he had any modern sensibility he would know that an educated wife was a treasure he could only hope to aspire to. What possessed me, I don’t know, and from the moment it left my lips I regretted it and I am sure I went scarlet as a beet. His reponse was nearly the death of me. He smiled and said, “Well, then, I suppose I’ll have to rethink my intentions to propose to you, dear lady.” It was too much to be borne, so I just turned and ran for it, I am heartily ashamed to tell you. If I ever meet him again, I will likely drop dead from shear humiliation.
My dearest Addie, I must finish up so I can post this today. I don’t know if I will survive without you, so we must wrack our educated brains and come up with a way to get Dad to let me come to Paris. I miss you more than I can tell. Write soon.
Yours sincerely,
Maitland Avery Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
17 May 1902
Dearest Adeline,
Oh, Addie, how can you stand it? Every time I think of your father I just want to smash his smug face! And I know it’s not ladylike, and Ms. Beale would have apoplexy if she knew I was thinking any such thing, but I can’t help it. I hate him! I hate him! How could he do this to you? And I’m selfish, Addie, because I hate him all the more for taking you away from me. I can’t imagine this summer without you. Peter will tease my life out for being home all day long, and I have no hope of convincing dad to let me come to see you. At least you are safe from that horrible old man. Dad warned me not to cause a scene at church when I saw your family, and I bit my lip the entire sermon to keep from standing up and pointing at him and calling him a bastard to his face! I’m sorry to talk so rudely of your family, Addie, but you know I love you. I miss you so! You must write me as often as you can, and tell me of life in Paris.
Life here is boring at best, and not worth relating except for the little adventure I had two nights ago. Dad and Mum and Peter had gone out for the evening to a play at the Britannia, so I betook myself to my favorite haunt on Holywell Street Strand, the secondhand booksellers with no name on the shoppe. Dad had expressly forbidden my going out alone, but you know how I hate to be cooped up, and I wasn’t going to sit and watch some silly play with Peter and his new girl-about-town (Frances Highmore of the Hoxton Highmores, and her name is the least obnoxious thing about her). Anyhow, I was browsing amongst the shoppe’s newest acquisitions from an estate sale and I found a dog-eared copy of Wuthering Heights, an early copy by “Ellis Bell.” You know how I love the story, and this particular copy seemed to have a story of its own, so I bought it (for much less than it is worth, I daresay) and went straightway to the park to peruse it further. I found, much to my delight, that it was inscribed with a sweet, cryptic note on the blank half of a page near the end of the book: “To my little Rabbit, whom I love with all my heart, and who holds my future in the depths of her fathomless eyes.” It is signed illegibly and dated “Oct. 1848.” How charming, don’t you think? I was immediately absorbed with the idea of discovering who this “Rabbit” is, and who loved her so much. I was thus distracted when I gradually became aware of a group of revelers making their way through the park. Indeed, it was now dusk and I could hardly see to read, so I got up to make my way home to the Mews. This action placed me in the direct path of the aforementioned revelers, and as they gained on me I realized that Stuart Hill was among them. His voice is difficult to mistake, as you might well remember. I dropped my head and increased my pace, but they had seen me and called out for me to join them if I would. I wouldn’t, of course, but this was hardly a polite way to respond, so I feigned not to have heard and kept walking. Stuart must have recognized me, because he called out, “Ah, the lady is an intellectual, and not to be disturbed – see, she carries a book.” Of course he makes sport of all the girls who attended Cheltenham, and one might say he can hardly be blamed for adopting his father’s prejudices when he had no mother to raise him properly, but, Addie, I was so mortified I couldn’t speak. To be mocked in such a way, in public, no less, just made my blood boil. And so I regained my voice, and turned around to face him, and did not reign in my temper as I should have. I called him a dotty old man, and said that if he had any modern sensibility he would know that an educated wife was a treasure he could only hope to aspire to. What possessed me, I don’t know, and from the moment it left my lips I regretted it and I am sure I went scarlet as a beet. His reponse was nearly the death of me. He smiled and said, “Well, then, I suppose I’ll have to rethink my intentions to propose to you, dear lady.” It was too much to be borne, so I just turned and ran for it, I am heartily ashamed to tell you. If I ever meet him again, I will likely drop dead from shear humiliation.
My dearest Addie, I must finish up so I can post this today. I don’t know if I will survive without you, so we must wrack our educated brains and come up with a way to get Dad to let me come to Paris. I miss you more than I can tell. Write soon.
Yours sincerely,
Maitland Avery Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London
Letter 1 - A Game of Cards
Miss Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London
4 May 1902
Dearest Maisie,
I found myself in the most unimaginable of circumstances, Maisie, and the decision to leave was of my own volition. Father came home from the gambling house Wednesday with a man I had never before laid eyes on. He made the man comfortable, offering him a drink and a pipe, and with a hand firm on the seated man’s shoulder, he bade me, “Adeline, welcome Mr. Shapcott to our family.” My eyes flickered around the room, trying to make sense of it. He continued, “Magistrate will make it square first thing on the morrow.” He turned to the man, and--in a mock whisper that could have been heard in the servants’ quarters--told him, “She’s a fine prize--worth every penny.” It was then that my father’s intentions were made clear. His wretched debauchery has cost our family its fortune, and it seemed he meant to fix it all through me. Maisie, you should have seen the man. I daresay he was my father’s own age. I could smell the brandy on the both of them from across the room. Shapcott stared, fixated on me the entire time. A thick beard covered much of his features, but his eyes were as coal in the firelight. The startling pronouncement that I was to marry this loathsome stranger sent the room spinning. It did not make sense. The idea that he would sell me in this way was terrible enough, although not entirely unexpected. But why this man, this way? It wasn’t long before it struck me as I stood there trying to disguise my trembling hands. The father I hold dear had wagered me away that night. I looked to my mother, but she would not return my pleading glances. All the while she simply sat in silence, looking at her dress.
I had not the capacity to utter a single word. At length, Father sent me to bed with a disgusted look on his reddened face. Mother, heading me off at the stairwell, pulled me in close and said hurriedly, “Shapcott was released from Strangeways Prison in Manchester last fall. I am not privy to the details of his crimes, but your father has kept company with him for months now, and he depicts him as mad. You must leave here tonight. Go to your uncle in Paris--in Le Marais; see if he will have you. Do not write me.” She tucked a thick roll of notes tightly into my hands, and turned from me without so much as a small kiss. I haven’t any idea where my mother might have obtained such a tidy sum, but I felt sick to think what she would suffer for the sacrifice. If the money belonged to my father, he will see her punished.
I crawled into my bed and lay still, listening to the crass laughter below. I waited patiently for the sound of the stranger to be ushered out the front door; listening intently for the collecting of the crystal, and my father’s heavy foot-fall as he attended to his perfunctory lockstep at the close of every drunken evening. Not long after, the house became still. I felt paralyzed, and utterly unable to do anything but stare at the walls of my room. I shuddered at the thought of the future laid out before me, married to a drunk like my father. I saw myself bruised and battered, my children huddled in the corner of a squalid dwelling, hungry and afraid. The horrid vision was enough. I packed but one small bag and set off downstairs, creeping quietly past my father, who lay sprawled and insensible in his armchair. Having seen his pathetic state, I did not take much care to quiet the latch on the door as I swung it open. I crept outside, pausing at the threshold to glance back at the smoldering fire in the hearth, the dying flames illuminating the face of my unconscious father. Perhaps you will not think it much to leave behind, but the whole of it made my chest ache. I closed the door. My journey had commenced, and It wasn’t long before I was on the train that would take me to Dover, where I would board a ship for France.
I do not know that I have ever told you of my uncle, Charles Westley. My father and Mr. Westley haven’t spoken for as long as I can recall. All I knew of him was that he was a man made wealthy through the industry of war, and that he harboured a deep hatred for my father. Hardly an encouraging connexion, but where else had I to go? By the time I reached Paris, it was early morning, and I was tired and muddied. I made my way to the Champs-Élysées from the station. I hadn’t any idea how to find my uncle, or what I would say if I were to be so fortunate. I thought it likely my father, once sober, would piece together where I’d gone off to. I also knew he would never come for me; not if it meant facing his brother. I walked for the better part of an hour, asking passersby if they knew of a Mr. Westley, but to no avail. I then found a small bakery and, in my terrible French, asked for a pastry and inquired once more if anyone was acquainted with Monsieur Westley. The boulangerie fell quiet and no one spoke. I watched as the patrons stared at the man limping over to me with his cane in hand, the sole of his boot dragging along the floor. My heart began to race as I watched him approaching, and when he at last stood before me, he lifted his eyes just up from beneath his bowler, and in a low, booming voice he spoke, “I am Mr. Westley.” Shaking visibly, I told him my plight. When I informed him that I had come at my mother’s request, he questioned, “Elyse sent you?” I went on with my story, but he turned from me, and walked out the door, propping it open with his cane. Confused and unsure, I followed him to his waiting carriage, and he did not object as I slid onto the seat across from him. We did not speak the duration of our ride to his estate. The carriage was greeted by servants who didn’t question Mr. Westley about his unexpected guest, but rather quickly ushered me inside and found me a room.
So much has transpired since my coming to Paris, but not enough to keep me from missing Paddington, and from missing you. Mr. Westley is a man of few words, but has provided me with a home, and it is more than I had hoped for. I can scarcely await your correspondence.
Yours,
Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
14 Bathurst Mews
London
4 May 1902
Dearest Maisie,
I found myself in the most unimaginable of circumstances, Maisie, and the decision to leave was of my own volition. Father came home from the gambling house Wednesday with a man I had never before laid eyes on. He made the man comfortable, offering him a drink and a pipe, and with a hand firm on the seated man’s shoulder, he bade me, “Adeline, welcome Mr. Shapcott to our family.” My eyes flickered around the room, trying to make sense of it. He continued, “Magistrate will make it square first thing on the morrow.” He turned to the man, and--in a mock whisper that could have been heard in the servants’ quarters--told him, “She’s a fine prize--worth every penny.” It was then that my father’s intentions were made clear. His wretched debauchery has cost our family its fortune, and it seemed he meant to fix it all through me. Maisie, you should have seen the man. I daresay he was my father’s own age. I could smell the brandy on the both of them from across the room. Shapcott stared, fixated on me the entire time. A thick beard covered much of his features, but his eyes were as coal in the firelight. The startling pronouncement that I was to marry this loathsome stranger sent the room spinning. It did not make sense. The idea that he would sell me in this way was terrible enough, although not entirely unexpected. But why this man, this way? It wasn’t long before it struck me as I stood there trying to disguise my trembling hands. The father I hold dear had wagered me away that night. I looked to my mother, but she would not return my pleading glances. All the while she simply sat in silence, looking at her dress.
I had not the capacity to utter a single word. At length, Father sent me to bed with a disgusted look on his reddened face. Mother, heading me off at the stairwell, pulled me in close and said hurriedly, “Shapcott was released from Strangeways Prison in Manchester last fall. I am not privy to the details of his crimes, but your father has kept company with him for months now, and he depicts him as mad. You must leave here tonight. Go to your uncle in Paris--in Le Marais; see if he will have you. Do not write me.” She tucked a thick roll of notes tightly into my hands, and turned from me without so much as a small kiss. I haven’t any idea where my mother might have obtained such a tidy sum, but I felt sick to think what she would suffer for the sacrifice. If the money belonged to my father, he will see her punished.
I crawled into my bed and lay still, listening to the crass laughter below. I waited patiently for the sound of the stranger to be ushered out the front door; listening intently for the collecting of the crystal, and my father’s heavy foot-fall as he attended to his perfunctory lockstep at the close of every drunken evening. Not long after, the house became still. I felt paralyzed, and utterly unable to do anything but stare at the walls of my room. I shuddered at the thought of the future laid out before me, married to a drunk like my father. I saw myself bruised and battered, my children huddled in the corner of a squalid dwelling, hungry and afraid. The horrid vision was enough. I packed but one small bag and set off downstairs, creeping quietly past my father, who lay sprawled and insensible in his armchair. Having seen his pathetic state, I did not take much care to quiet the latch on the door as I swung it open. I crept outside, pausing at the threshold to glance back at the smoldering fire in the hearth, the dying flames illuminating the face of my unconscious father. Perhaps you will not think it much to leave behind, but the whole of it made my chest ache. I closed the door. My journey had commenced, and It wasn’t long before I was on the train that would take me to Dover, where I would board a ship for France.
I do not know that I have ever told you of my uncle, Charles Westley. My father and Mr. Westley haven’t spoken for as long as I can recall. All I knew of him was that he was a man made wealthy through the industry of war, and that he harboured a deep hatred for my father. Hardly an encouraging connexion, but where else had I to go? By the time I reached Paris, it was early morning, and I was tired and muddied. I made my way to the Champs-Élysées from the station. I hadn’t any idea how to find my uncle, or what I would say if I were to be so fortunate. I thought it likely my father, once sober, would piece together where I’d gone off to. I also knew he would never come for me; not if it meant facing his brother. I walked for the better part of an hour, asking passersby if they knew of a Mr. Westley, but to no avail. I then found a small bakery and, in my terrible French, asked for a pastry and inquired once more if anyone was acquainted with Monsieur Westley. The boulangerie fell quiet and no one spoke. I watched as the patrons stared at the man limping over to me with his cane in hand, the sole of his boot dragging along the floor. My heart began to race as I watched him approaching, and when he at last stood before me, he lifted his eyes just up from beneath his bowler, and in a low, booming voice he spoke, “I am Mr. Westley.” Shaking visibly, I told him my plight. When I informed him that I had come at my mother’s request, he questioned, “Elyse sent you?” I went on with my story, but he turned from me, and walked out the door, propping it open with his cane. Confused and unsure, I followed him to his waiting carriage, and he did not object as I slid onto the seat across from him. We did not speak the duration of our ride to his estate. The carriage was greeted by servants who didn’t question Mr. Westley about his unexpected guest, but rather quickly ushered me inside and found me a room.
So much has transpired since my coming to Paris, but not enough to keep me from missing Paddington, and from missing you. Mr. Westley is a man of few words, but has provided me with a home, and it is more than I had hoped for. I can scarcely await your correspondence.
Yours,
Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
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