Letter 19 - Addie's Portrait
Miss Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London
5 December 1902
Dearest Maisie,
I am so envious of your journey out to the Carnival. How I wish I could have been there to join in the revelry! Your letters are wonderful and terrible all at once. I can just imagine the Carnival and the splendid costumes and more than anything I want to be there; to be a part of your story. Alas, here I am, still in Paris. With the Christmas season growing near, I do not know how well I shall fare in the coming months without you.
Well, I shall tell you of all my adventures as of late. Last Friday, I was at my regular appointment with Mr. Rousseau. I was already taken with my studies when Mr. Rousseau began rigorously tapping upon the desk. I turned my head to look at him, and he was staring straightforwardly at me, as he tapped. He had a look of stern intensity about his face and spoke, "I hear you have been keeping company with Mr. Steichen." The tapping persisted. Maisie, I did not know what to say to the man, "Yes, he has been a pleasing--friend." "Friend? Perhaps you are too quick to forget your other . . . friends." Before I had time to react, Madame Fifi entered, "Adeline, Mr. Steichen is here." I speedily left the tapping and the library. Eduard was waiting for me in the tea room. He was wearing a black lounge suit, black overcoat and a black Homburg hat that sat just so, so as to make his eyes only visible when he looked up at me. "Hello, Addie," he said. I smiled and took his arm. I never really have any inkling as to where we will go when I am with Eduard. We have been to the theatre, we have been to see the new Eiffel Tower, we have attended galas and art expositions. We walked out to the Champs Elysees and boarded the Metro. When we exited the station, we found ourselves walking in a very bourgeoisie neighbourhood. We were on the east side of the Place des Vosges--a spot I had not had the pleasure of seeing until then. We stopped in front of a charming end terrace house, when Eduard fetched a key from his coat pocket. "Is this your home, then?" I asked. "More a studio than a home--but yes--it has a bed. Please, come in." We walked into the foyer and I must admit, I felt entirely out of my realm. Scattered across the walls in every direction were paintings and photographs. Some were of the beautiful countryside, quite a few had only the image of a woman's bare back . . . I felt so unprepared to see such things. I hadn't in the slightest, any idea what to say. Clumsily I asked, "Are all of these yours then?" He said, "Yes, mostly. A few are gifts." We walked down the hall to an open room, which was indeed filled with all sorts of equipment. Stark, white canvases stood on easels around the room--some of them had the beginnings of faint, but still indiscernible images streaked across in oil paint. In one corner was a chaise, in the other, an unmade bed. There didn't seem to be anyone else in the house. The silence was awkward. Finally, Eduard said, "When I saw you this afternoon I knew today was the day to take your portrait." I immediately began to fidget and worry about how our travels had no doubt put my curls in disrepair. "You look angelic," he said, as he began to fiddle with his camera. My mind wandered back to the risque pictures in the hallway, and I stuttered, "Eduard, I know you h-have an eye for what is beautiful, but if you will recall, I am the lady who does not aspire to be k-kissed when greeted--I hardly . . ." He chuckled, "Addie, do not fret, this will be a fully-clothed photograph." I am quite sure I looked visibly relieved. The afternoon with Eduard was splendid. I doubt I shall ever forget it. Never have I been so spoilt or admired. I have enclosed for you one of the photographs Eduard took of me.
Maisie, there is something that has been troubling me. It is quite personal, really. I am a bit embarrassed to write it, honestly. However, I think it will do you well to understand my behaviour. Do you recall the small gathering your family had for you upon our graduating from Cheltenham? When Mother and I came over for the evening, we had the loveliest time. It was so enjoyable to see Mother in such high spirits--even if I knew once we returned home, she would no doubt return to her melancholy self. Much had been weighing heavily on my mind at the time. I am not certain you took notice, but at one point in the evening, I excused myself and went out to the balcony to have a moment to myself. I remember leaning against the iron, and staring out into the starry night wondering what the future would hold for me. Mother and Father were quarreling now, more than ever. Everything felt as if it were falling apart. I heard the doors to the balcony quietly open and close again, briefly letting the cheery noises from the inside out--it was Peter. He came and occupied the balcony just beside me, just as he had a hundred times before when we were younger; when you, Peter and I would observe the heavens, trying to pick out the constellations. Maisie, he just stood there and looked at me without deviation. I did not know how to explain the sorrowfulness in my countenance, but it seemed he did not need me to. It was as if the years we had spent growing up with one another had somehow given him the cleverness to discern all that plagued me. In a hushed tone he whispered, “Adeline . . . “ The softness in his voice seemed to mend me. I was caught unawares by my inclinations, and became all at once alive to the fact that we were no longer just children. As we stood there--so near--I never in all my life have found myself wanting anything as much as I did Peter Bristow. A rush of delirium swept through me and I quickly left the balcony to return to the celebration. Well, now it has been said. I know you question my good judgment in being taken with Peter. Maisie, I question my own judgment, as well. How could I consent to letting a few brief moments consume me so? What is more, I know Peter is all the things you describe him to be. Furthermore, Eduard is mine now--I know I mustn’t corrupt my affection for him. I want you to know that I resolve to put Peter out of my mind. I shan’t dwell on these foolish imaginations any longer.
I do hope your holiday is going well, and that you will find the time to write me soon. Despite my busy days and nights, there is always a loneliness here without you.
Yours,
Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
14 Bathurst Mews
London
5 December 1902
Dearest Maisie,
I am so envious of your journey out to the Carnival. How I wish I could have been there to join in the revelry! Your letters are wonderful and terrible all at once. I can just imagine the Carnival and the splendid costumes and more than anything I want to be there; to be a part of your story. Alas, here I am, still in Paris. With the Christmas season growing near, I do not know how well I shall fare in the coming months without you.
Well, I shall tell you of all my adventures as of late. Last Friday, I was at my regular appointment with Mr. Rousseau. I was already taken with my studies when Mr. Rousseau began rigorously tapping upon the desk. I turned my head to look at him, and he was staring straightforwardly at me, as he tapped. He had a look of stern intensity about his face and spoke, "I hear you have been keeping company with Mr. Steichen." The tapping persisted. Maisie, I did not know what to say to the man, "Yes, he has been a pleasing--friend." "Friend? Perhaps you are too quick to forget your other . . . friends." Before I had time to react, Madame Fifi entered, "Adeline, Mr. Steichen is here." I speedily left the tapping and the library. Eduard was waiting for me in the tea room. He was wearing a black lounge suit, black overcoat and a black Homburg hat that sat just so, so as to make his eyes only visible when he looked up at me. "Hello, Addie," he said. I smiled and took his arm. I never really have any inkling as to where we will go when I am with Eduard. We have been to the theatre, we have been to see the new Eiffel Tower, we have attended galas and art expositions. We walked out to the Champs Elysees and boarded the Metro. When we exited the station, we found ourselves walking in a very bourgeoisie neighbourhood. We were on the east side of the Place des Vosges--a spot I had not had the pleasure of seeing until then. We stopped in front of a charming end terrace house, when Eduard fetched a key from his coat pocket. "Is this your home, then?" I asked. "More a studio than a home--but yes--it has a bed. Please, come in." We walked into the foyer and I must admit, I felt entirely out of my realm. Scattered across the walls in every direction were paintings and photographs. Some were of the beautiful countryside, quite a few had only the image of a woman's bare back . . . I felt so unprepared to see such things. I hadn't in the slightest, any idea what to say. Clumsily I asked, "Are all of these yours then?" He said, "Yes, mostly. A few are gifts." We walked down the hall to an open room, which was indeed filled with all sorts of equipment. Stark, white canvases stood on easels around the room--some of them had the beginnings of faint, but still indiscernible images streaked across in oil paint. In one corner was a chaise, in the other, an unmade bed. There didn't seem to be anyone else in the house. The silence was awkward. Finally, Eduard said, "When I saw you this afternoon I knew today was the day to take your portrait." I immediately began to fidget and worry about how our travels had no doubt put my curls in disrepair. "You look angelic," he said, as he began to fiddle with his camera. My mind wandered back to the risque pictures in the hallway, and I stuttered, "Eduard, I know you h-have an eye for what is beautiful, but if you will recall, I am the lady who does not aspire to be k-kissed when greeted--I hardly . . ." He chuckled, "Addie, do not fret, this will be a fully-clothed photograph." I am quite sure I looked visibly relieved. The afternoon with Eduard was splendid. I doubt I shall ever forget it. Never have I been so spoilt or admired. I have enclosed for you one of the photographs Eduard took of me.
Maisie, there is something that has been troubling me. It is quite personal, really. I am a bit embarrassed to write it, honestly. However, I think it will do you well to understand my behaviour. Do you recall the small gathering your family had for you upon our graduating from Cheltenham? When Mother and I came over for the evening, we had the loveliest time. It was so enjoyable to see Mother in such high spirits--even if I knew once we returned home, she would no doubt return to her melancholy self. Much had been weighing heavily on my mind at the time. I am not certain you took notice, but at one point in the evening, I excused myself and went out to the balcony to have a moment to myself. I remember leaning against the iron, and staring out into the starry night wondering what the future would hold for me. Mother and Father were quarreling now, more than ever. Everything felt as if it were falling apart. I heard the doors to the balcony quietly open and close again, briefly letting the cheery noises from the inside out--it was Peter. He came and occupied the balcony just beside me, just as he had a hundred times before when we were younger; when you, Peter and I would observe the heavens, trying to pick out the constellations. Maisie, he just stood there and looked at me without deviation. I did not know how to explain the sorrowfulness in my countenance, but it seemed he did not need me to. It was as if the years we had spent growing up with one another had somehow given him the cleverness to discern all that plagued me. In a hushed tone he whispered, “Adeline . . . “ The softness in his voice seemed to mend me. I was caught unawares by my inclinations, and became all at once alive to the fact that we were no longer just children. As we stood there--so near--I never in all my life have found myself wanting anything as much as I did Peter Bristow. A rush of delirium swept through me and I quickly left the balcony to return to the celebration. Well, now it has been said. I know you question my good judgment in being taken with Peter. Maisie, I question my own judgment, as well. How could I consent to letting a few brief moments consume me so? What is more, I know Peter is all the things you describe him to be. Furthermore, Eduard is mine now--I know I mustn’t corrupt my affection for him. I want you to know that I resolve to put Peter out of my mind. I shan’t dwell on these foolish imaginations any longer.
I do hope your holiday is going well, and that you will find the time to write me soon. Despite my busy days and nights, there is always a loneliness here without you.
Yours,
Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
Letter 18 - Bonfire Night at Bridgwater
Miss Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
24 November 1902
Dearest Addie,
Darling, I am so happy for you! I must ask you, however, not to allow Eduard Steichen to take you away to America! I shall not survive it. It is quite bad enough to have the Channel between us, I do not think I could abide to be separated by the Atlantic! When he proposes, you must use your wiles to convince him to take up residence in England. I must also ask you to note my opinion concerning Peter, however you may choose to regard it. Addie, as you are being courted by a renowned artist who is handsome, charming, and obviously enamored of you, I think it entirely inappropriate for you to compare said gentleman with Peter, and really quite daffy that Peter should come out the better in your view. There, I have written it. You are a dear girl, Addie, but I do question your judgment when it comes to my brother.
I must tell you about Bonfire Night. Peter and I were to take the GWR to Bridgwater. It was only as we left for Paddington Station that Peter deigned to inform me that he had invited a few of his Oxford chums to join us for the Carnival, and only upon the actual appearance of said chums that I discovered who was among them. Imagine my chagrin, Addie, as the crowd parted just enough for me to spy Stuart Hill waiting next to the train with Phillip Davies and another fellow I didn’t recognize. I knocked Peter in the arm as squarely as I could. Peter feigned innocence, of course, but I am sure he only invited Stuart to antagonize me. I decided at that moment not to play into Peter’s hands. I vowed if Stuart or Peter or any one of those cursed boys should attempt to rile me, I should not rise to it. The unknown young man was introduced to me as John Blackstone. And so I greeted them all quite civilly, boarded the train, and proceeded to courteously ignore them for the entirety of the journey. When we arrived at Bridgwater I was the first of our group to disembark, and a glorious scene awaited me outside the station.
The costumes alone, Addie, were well worth the visit. And after my self-imposed confinement of the last few months, it was exhilarating to be out in the crisp evening air, in the packed streets, with lights and music and exuberant faces every which way I turned, shimmering skirts and petticoats swirling amidst a sea of fascinating people. The procession was not something I shall soon forget, nor the lighting of the squibs. The citizens of Bridgwater paid homage to His Majesty King Edward by duplicating the State Coach to the finest detail, illuminating it with paraffin lamps, and having it drawn by eight lovely palominos at the head of the procession. Nevermind the cars, Addie, you should have seen the horses! I was like to have been blinded by the glittering finery draped on each and every horse, and the bright hoof paint! I was quite pleased when my favorite exquisite Shire horse, a fine black mare drawing a car made to represent an Egyptian pyramid, won several awards for her costume. I was masquerading myself, as were most of the revelers, although my costume consisted only of my second best black dress and a jeweled mask I acquired at one of the Carnival shoppes. I must admit the boys looked quite dashing in their masks, and there were more than a few ladies in the crowd who seemed to agree with me. As we made our way from the concerts at the town hall to the Cornhill for the bonfire we were moving through the crowds in a sort of line, with Phillip and John in the lead, Peter next, then myself and Stuart at the end. By the time we had reached the top of the High Street, two of my four escorts had vanished, each having been lured away, no doubt, by a mysterious lady. I was left with Peter and Stuart, and we decided to cross to the far side of the street, so as to be in a better position to see the squibs go off. No sooner had we secured a good spot than Peter exchanged a meaningful glance with Stuart, announced his intention to get us all something from the costermongers, and disappeared into the crowd. Upon finding myself alone with Stuart, I performed the mental equivalent of throwing my hands up in despair. "Miss Bristow," he began, "I have a grave confession to make, concerning the Ambleside holiday--" And I couldn't seem to stop myself from interrupting him, Addie, no matter my vow. I maintained my composure, and said, “Let me see if I have the gist of it, Mr. Hill. Upon hearing of your poor, homely cousin’s plight, it immediately occurred to you to save another pitiable and plain creature from loneliness, namely myself.” Stuart did look rather surprised at my outburst, but nodded politely and said, “Am I so transparent, Miss Bristow? I fear you see right through me to my deepest and most guarded secrets.” To which I replied, “Well I thank you for your noble intentions, Mr. Hill, and I hope you have enjoyed trying your hand at matchmaking, but I’m quite capable of survival without your assistance.” He then had the nerve to look amused, and said only, “I shall bear that in mind.” I don’t know what it is about him that infuriates me so, but I am beginning to worry that it is rooted in my attraction to him. It is truly a wretched thing to be a woman, Addie. Peter returned with baked sweet potatoes (which were quite delicious) and we watched the squibs while we ate. It was glorious, Addie – imagine a golden fountain of light covering a large stretch of the street and shooting several metres into the air, and you still shan’t be doing it justice. The music, the costumes, and the excitement of the squibbers and the masqueraders all combined to make it nothing short of magical.
It was very late when we trudged off to Mum’s cousin Louisa’s, where we had arranged to stay overnight. We slept late into the following morning and returned to London in the afternoon. Happily, Peter's friends wished to stay an extra day or two, so it was only Peter and I on the train home. I had enjoyed myself so hugely (for the most part) that I had already forgiven him for inviting Stuart. It seemed almost like old times, the two of us gazing out the compartment window at the countryside rolling swiftly by. I was rather content, Addie, and I kicked Peter on the shin to display my feelings of affection. I thought it perhaps a good time to ask him a few things I have been wondering about, so I said, "Peter, I haven't seen Miss Highmore much of late, why didn't you invite her to Carnival?" Peter was not particularly eager to talk, it seemed, but he did say, "Well, I don't think Miss Highmore would have accepted my invitation." I began to apologize for my part in his obligation to abandon her at the Carrington's garden party, but he interrupted me and said, "Try not to speak utter nonsense, please. It's none of your affair, Maisie, and hasn’t anything to do with you, unless ... did you tell her ..." and then he stopped short. "Tell her what?" I prompted, but he refused to answer my question. "Really, Maisie, I don't know why you should care. You never liked Frances much, did you?" So ended my brief spell of camaraderie with my brother, as we didn't speak the rest of the journey home. I suppose he is quite hurt over Miss Highmore's rejection, but he needn't have snapped at me and spoilt my good mood.
So, Carnival behind me, I now have the much dreaded Ambleside holiday to look forward to. I shall write you from the Lake District, next, Addie.
Sincerely,
Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
24 November 1902
Dearest Addie,
Darling, I am so happy for you! I must ask you, however, not to allow Eduard Steichen to take you away to America! I shall not survive it. It is quite bad enough to have the Channel between us, I do not think I could abide to be separated by the Atlantic! When he proposes, you must use your wiles to convince him to take up residence in England. I must also ask you to note my opinion concerning Peter, however you may choose to regard it. Addie, as you are being courted by a renowned artist who is handsome, charming, and obviously enamored of you, I think it entirely inappropriate for you to compare said gentleman with Peter, and really quite daffy that Peter should come out the better in your view. There, I have written it. You are a dear girl, Addie, but I do question your judgment when it comes to my brother.
I must tell you about Bonfire Night. Peter and I were to take the GWR to Bridgwater. It was only as we left for Paddington Station that Peter deigned to inform me that he had invited a few of his Oxford chums to join us for the Carnival, and only upon the actual appearance of said chums that I discovered who was among them. Imagine my chagrin, Addie, as the crowd parted just enough for me to spy Stuart Hill waiting next to the train with Phillip Davies and another fellow I didn’t recognize. I knocked Peter in the arm as squarely as I could. Peter feigned innocence, of course, but I am sure he only invited Stuart to antagonize me. I decided at that moment not to play into Peter’s hands. I vowed if Stuart or Peter or any one of those cursed boys should attempt to rile me, I should not rise to it. The unknown young man was introduced to me as John Blackstone. And so I greeted them all quite civilly, boarded the train, and proceeded to courteously ignore them for the entirety of the journey. When we arrived at Bridgwater I was the first of our group to disembark, and a glorious scene awaited me outside the station.
The costumes alone, Addie, were well worth the visit. And after my self-imposed confinement of the last few months, it was exhilarating to be out in the crisp evening air, in the packed streets, with lights and music and exuberant faces every which way I turned, shimmering skirts and petticoats swirling amidst a sea of fascinating people. The procession was not something I shall soon forget, nor the lighting of the squibs. The citizens of Bridgwater paid homage to His Majesty King Edward by duplicating the State Coach to the finest detail, illuminating it with paraffin lamps, and having it drawn by eight lovely palominos at the head of the procession. Nevermind the cars, Addie, you should have seen the horses! I was like to have been blinded by the glittering finery draped on each and every horse, and the bright hoof paint! I was quite pleased when my favorite exquisite Shire horse, a fine black mare drawing a car made to represent an Egyptian pyramid, won several awards for her costume. I was masquerading myself, as were most of the revelers, although my costume consisted only of my second best black dress and a jeweled mask I acquired at one of the Carnival shoppes. I must admit the boys looked quite dashing in their masks, and there were more than a few ladies in the crowd who seemed to agree with me. As we made our way from the concerts at the town hall to the Cornhill for the bonfire we were moving through the crowds in a sort of line, with Phillip and John in the lead, Peter next, then myself and Stuart at the end. By the time we had reached the top of the High Street, two of my four escorts had vanished, each having been lured away, no doubt, by a mysterious lady. I was left with Peter and Stuart, and we decided to cross to the far side of the street, so as to be in a better position to see the squibs go off. No sooner had we secured a good spot than Peter exchanged a meaningful glance with Stuart, announced his intention to get us all something from the costermongers, and disappeared into the crowd. Upon finding myself alone with Stuart, I performed the mental equivalent of throwing my hands up in despair. "Miss Bristow," he began, "I have a grave confession to make, concerning the Ambleside holiday--" And I couldn't seem to stop myself from interrupting him, Addie, no matter my vow. I maintained my composure, and said, “Let me see if I have the gist of it, Mr. Hill. Upon hearing of your poor, homely cousin’s plight, it immediately occurred to you to save another pitiable and plain creature from loneliness, namely myself.” Stuart did look rather surprised at my outburst, but nodded politely and said, “Am I so transparent, Miss Bristow? I fear you see right through me to my deepest and most guarded secrets.” To which I replied, “Well I thank you for your noble intentions, Mr. Hill, and I hope you have enjoyed trying your hand at matchmaking, but I’m quite capable of survival without your assistance.” He then had the nerve to look amused, and said only, “I shall bear that in mind.” I don’t know what it is about him that infuriates me so, but I am beginning to worry that it is rooted in my attraction to him. It is truly a wretched thing to be a woman, Addie. Peter returned with baked sweet potatoes (which were quite delicious) and we watched the squibs while we ate. It was glorious, Addie – imagine a golden fountain of light covering a large stretch of the street and shooting several metres into the air, and you still shan’t be doing it justice. The music, the costumes, and the excitement of the squibbers and the masqueraders all combined to make it nothing short of magical.
It was very late when we trudged off to Mum’s cousin Louisa’s, where we had arranged to stay overnight. We slept late into the following morning and returned to London in the afternoon. Happily, Peter's friends wished to stay an extra day or two, so it was only Peter and I on the train home. I had enjoyed myself so hugely (for the most part) that I had already forgiven him for inviting Stuart. It seemed almost like old times, the two of us gazing out the compartment window at the countryside rolling swiftly by. I was rather content, Addie, and I kicked Peter on the shin to display my feelings of affection. I thought it perhaps a good time to ask him a few things I have been wondering about, so I said, "Peter, I haven't seen Miss Highmore much of late, why didn't you invite her to Carnival?" Peter was not particularly eager to talk, it seemed, but he did say, "Well, I don't think Miss Highmore would have accepted my invitation." I began to apologize for my part in his obligation to abandon her at the Carrington's garden party, but he interrupted me and said, "Try not to speak utter nonsense, please. It's none of your affair, Maisie, and hasn’t anything to do with you, unless ... did you tell her ..." and then he stopped short. "Tell her what?" I prompted, but he refused to answer my question. "Really, Maisie, I don't know why you should care. You never liked Frances much, did you?" So ended my brief spell of camaraderie with my brother, as we didn't speak the rest of the journey home. I suppose he is quite hurt over Miss Highmore's rejection, but he needn't have snapped at me and spoilt my good mood.
So, Carnival behind me, I now have the much dreaded Ambleside holiday to look forward to. I shall write you from the Lake District, next, Addie.
Sincerely,
Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London
Letter 17 - Eduard Steichen
Miss Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London
14 November 1902
Dearest Maisie,
What an adventure your two weeks with the Hills will be! I cannot wait to hear all the details. I wonder what sort of fellow Richard will be. I know Stuart has always found merriment in your harassment, but it is curious that he should work so very arduously at it, is it not? I do hope however, that in pairing you with his cousin, he does not intend to play some new practical joke. Whatever the case may be, you shall make the best of things, I am sure. You will no doubt have a wonderful holiday.
As for cheering you up, I can only relate that which cheers me: many times a week now, I see Eduard. When he first came to call, it was Mr. Westley who greeted him--not Madame Fifi. Mr. Westley invited Eduard to sit down, and they spent the entirety of an hour conversing. Mind you, I was eavesdropping in the hallway, so most of what was said remains a mystery to me. I was able to catch Eduard expanding on the progression of the photograph, and speaking briefly of America. Mr. Westley seemed notably uncomfortable at times, however. He rarely interjected and seemed unimpressed. At one point, Mr. Westley began to delve a bit further into Eduard's personal life--which surprised me. Although much of the conversation, as it were, was quite stifled by the clatter of dishes being washed in the kitchen, I did manage to catch Eduard saying quite casually, “The courtesans keep at their attempts to snare me, but I intend to remain above it. The Photosecession Group would not approve. ” I made an audible gasp, and quickly covered my mouth. Maisie, it seems I have been a dullard when it comes to Eduard Steichen. Apparently, he is quite well-known for his art here in Paris, despite the fact that he is an American. My Uncle's tone shifted, and he firmly responded, "How convenient that must be for you, Mr. Steichen--to have so many ... options. Certainly you realize, Adeline is not to be mishandled. I hate to think upon what should happen if she were." After their exchange, Mr. Westley came to find me. I quickly scurried down the hallway and acted as if I was just on my way to come find him myself. When I saw Eduard, I felt suddenly more nervous than I had been prepared to be. He lounged in the armchair as if he had sat in it his whole life—showing no sign of restlessness or worry. His features are striking, with a look that seems to trespass into my very thoughts. It was as if I was playing a part in a play that he had seen a hundred times before: a handsome woman walks nervously into the room awaiting his company for the evening. Unlike my outing with Mr. Rousseau, I had spent a rather long time getting ready for this occasion, and Eduard smiled approvingly. We walked to Champs Elysees. The lights of the city were a sight to behold; and so, evidently, was Mr. Steichen. Everywhere we went, ladies whispered to each other, smiling at Eduard. On two occasions men approached Edward (paying me no mind) to ask his opinion on the Exposition Universelle’s display of moving film. They would chat for a few brief moments, and then Eduard would politely excuse us. When at last we had a moment of peace, I asked him when he intended to take my portrait, to which he replied, “As soon as I feel inspired to.” “Well that may take ages!” I replied. We both laughed. We dined at Café du Cirque. He spoke of America and of his decision to come to Paris. He asked me about my family in London and I donned a smile and lied, “My father and mother are certain some time here with Mr. Westley shall prove beneficial to my education.” He asked what business my father is in, “He is an architect,” I replied, (which is true, of course) wanting to add that he is a drunk, and a gambler and a terrible waste of a man—but of course I did not. Come to think of it, most of what I told Edward was a lie—a beautiful fable of a life I often wish was mine. Since then, Eduard has shown me all around Paris. He has spent many hours humoring my Uncle and his incessant questions. Our evenings have been nothing short of magical. Eduard is a gentleman; handsome, intelligent, well-known, and seems to enjoy my companionship very much. As of yet, I can only find one flaw in him . . . he is not Peter.
Yours,
Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
14 Bathurst Mews
London
14 November 1902
Dearest Maisie,
What an adventure your two weeks with the Hills will be! I cannot wait to hear all the details. I wonder what sort of fellow Richard will be. I know Stuart has always found merriment in your harassment, but it is curious that he should work so very arduously at it, is it not? I do hope however, that in pairing you with his cousin, he does not intend to play some new practical joke. Whatever the case may be, you shall make the best of things, I am sure. You will no doubt have a wonderful holiday.
As for cheering you up, I can only relate that which cheers me: many times a week now, I see Eduard. When he first came to call, it was Mr. Westley who greeted him--not Madame Fifi. Mr. Westley invited Eduard to sit down, and they spent the entirety of an hour conversing. Mind you, I was eavesdropping in the hallway, so most of what was said remains a mystery to me. I was able to catch Eduard expanding on the progression of the photograph, and speaking briefly of America. Mr. Westley seemed notably uncomfortable at times, however. He rarely interjected and seemed unimpressed. At one point, Mr. Westley began to delve a bit further into Eduard's personal life--which surprised me. Although much of the conversation, as it were, was quite stifled by the clatter of dishes being washed in the kitchen, I did manage to catch Eduard saying quite casually, “The courtesans keep at their attempts to snare me, but I intend to remain above it. The Photosecession Group would not approve. ” I made an audible gasp, and quickly covered my mouth. Maisie, it seems I have been a dullard when it comes to Eduard Steichen. Apparently, he is quite well-known for his art here in Paris, despite the fact that he is an American. My Uncle's tone shifted, and he firmly responded, "How convenient that must be for you, Mr. Steichen--to have so many ... options. Certainly you realize, Adeline is not to be mishandled. I hate to think upon what should happen if she were." After their exchange, Mr. Westley came to find me. I quickly scurried down the hallway and acted as if I was just on my way to come find him myself. When I saw Eduard, I felt suddenly more nervous than I had been prepared to be. He lounged in the armchair as if he had sat in it his whole life—showing no sign of restlessness or worry. His features are striking, with a look that seems to trespass into my very thoughts. It was as if I was playing a part in a play that he had seen a hundred times before: a handsome woman walks nervously into the room awaiting his company for the evening. Unlike my outing with Mr. Rousseau, I had spent a rather long time getting ready for this occasion, and Eduard smiled approvingly. We walked to Champs Elysees. The lights of the city were a sight to behold; and so, evidently, was Mr. Steichen. Everywhere we went, ladies whispered to each other, smiling at Eduard. On two occasions men approached Edward (paying me no mind) to ask his opinion on the Exposition Universelle’s display of moving film. They would chat for a few brief moments, and then Eduard would politely excuse us. When at last we had a moment of peace, I asked him when he intended to take my portrait, to which he replied, “As soon as I feel inspired to.” “Well that may take ages!” I replied. We both laughed. We dined at Café du Cirque. He spoke of America and of his decision to come to Paris. He asked me about my family in London and I donned a smile and lied, “My father and mother are certain some time here with Mr. Westley shall prove beneficial to my education.” He asked what business my father is in, “He is an architect,” I replied, (which is true, of course) wanting to add that he is a drunk, and a gambler and a terrible waste of a man—but of course I did not. Come to think of it, most of what I told Edward was a lie—a beautiful fable of a life I often wish was mine. Since then, Eduard has shown me all around Paris. He has spent many hours humoring my Uncle and his incessant questions. Our evenings have been nothing short of magical. Eduard is a gentleman; handsome, intelligent, well-known, and seems to enjoy my companionship very much. As of yet, I can only find one flaw in him . . . he is not Peter.
Yours,
Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
Letter 16 - What Stuart Wanted
Miss Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
3 November 1902
Dearest Addie,
Now, Addie, just because you are being courted by a handsome young American artist in Paris does not mean that Stuart Hill has any romantic intentions toward me, the fact that he was looking for me to the contrary notwithstanding. You really musn’t encourage me to think of such things, Addie, it will only perpetuate the sort of irresponsible girlish fancies I am struggling to rise above. I must ask you to put aside the disarming qualities of Mr. Hill’s exceptionally pleasing appearance and bearing, and keep in mind that Mr. Hill has ever been a source of frustration to me, as his only means of paying me attention has been to mock, belittle, or otherwise poke fun at my person, albeit with such a gentlemanly manner that it is sometimes difficult to decipher the insult. In short, I beg you not to make much of what I am about to tell you. I have indeed discovered the purpose of Mr. Hill’s inquiries after me at church the day I found the note under your pew. He came to call the day after I posted your last letter, and explained his purpose. I needn’t have worried that he wished for a private conversation. He did not. In fact, he hardly seemed to require my attendance at all. Mum invited him to stay for supper, and he explained his errand in the presence of Dad, Mum, Peter, and The Cat; in less time than it took for me to bring out the pudding. It seems he has been invited to spend a fortnight with his cousins in Ambleside, and they shall be short one female for the dancing. “As Miss Bristow will no longer be troubled with schoolwork,” I overheard him saying to Dad, “I thought perhaps she might do my family the honor of accompanying my cousin Richard to the various festivities which will take place during the holiday.” So. I wanted nothing so much as to slap his presumptuous face, but before I could move or open my mouth, or indeed set down the trifle, Mum was answering for me. “That is very kind of you, Mr. Hill. Maisie has been so lonely this summer--a holiday will be just the thing. Of course she’ll go.” You know I love my mother, Addie, but she was almost as bad as Stuart! I wanted to bury my head in the bread basket, but all I did was smile and nod curtly, for Mum’s sake. And so it has fallen out that I am now consigned to a pity holiday, and I am not sure who is the more pitiable, myself or Richard Hill.
On a happier subject, Peter and I are going to the Bridgwater Carnival to celebrate Bonfire Night. I will tell you all about it in my next letter. You must tell me all about Mr. Steichen. The truth is, Addie, I am lonely. Desperately so. I miss you greatly. I only wish my wretched state had not been advertised to the one who, of all people, needs no further reason to feel sorry for me. Do cheer me up!
Sincerely,
Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
3 November 1902
Dearest Addie,
Now, Addie, just because you are being courted by a handsome young American artist in Paris does not mean that Stuart Hill has any romantic intentions toward me, the fact that he was looking for me to the contrary notwithstanding. You really musn’t encourage me to think of such things, Addie, it will only perpetuate the sort of irresponsible girlish fancies I am struggling to rise above. I must ask you to put aside the disarming qualities of Mr. Hill’s exceptionally pleasing appearance and bearing, and keep in mind that Mr. Hill has ever been a source of frustration to me, as his only means of paying me attention has been to mock, belittle, or otherwise poke fun at my person, albeit with such a gentlemanly manner that it is sometimes difficult to decipher the insult. In short, I beg you not to make much of what I am about to tell you. I have indeed discovered the purpose of Mr. Hill’s inquiries after me at church the day I found the note under your pew. He came to call the day after I posted your last letter, and explained his purpose. I needn’t have worried that he wished for a private conversation. He did not. In fact, he hardly seemed to require my attendance at all. Mum invited him to stay for supper, and he explained his errand in the presence of Dad, Mum, Peter, and The Cat; in less time than it took for me to bring out the pudding. It seems he has been invited to spend a fortnight with his cousins in Ambleside, and they shall be short one female for the dancing. “As Miss Bristow will no longer be troubled with schoolwork,” I overheard him saying to Dad, “I thought perhaps she might do my family the honor of accompanying my cousin Richard to the various festivities which will take place during the holiday.” So. I wanted nothing so much as to slap his presumptuous face, but before I could move or open my mouth, or indeed set down the trifle, Mum was answering for me. “That is very kind of you, Mr. Hill. Maisie has been so lonely this summer--a holiday will be just the thing. Of course she’ll go.” You know I love my mother, Addie, but she was almost as bad as Stuart! I wanted to bury my head in the bread basket, but all I did was smile and nod curtly, for Mum’s sake. And so it has fallen out that I am now consigned to a pity holiday, and I am not sure who is the more pitiable, myself or Richard Hill.
On a happier subject, Peter and I are going to the Bridgwater Carnival to celebrate Bonfire Night. I will tell you all about it in my next letter. You must tell me all about Mr. Steichen. The truth is, Addie, I am lonely. Desperately so. I miss you greatly. I only wish my wretched state had not been advertised to the one who, of all people, needs no further reason to feel sorry for me. Do cheer me up!
Sincerely,
Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London
Letter 15 - An Admirer
Miss Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London
23 October 1902
Dear Maisie,
I'm glad to hear your unfortunate event has not troubled you too much more than it should.
The little note you discovered that belonged to my father is most curious, indeed. I have racked my brain trying to think; who in this household could be invading my privacy? Madame Fifi (who's surname is Lafayette ... Fifette Lafayette ... and to think she is bothered by my calling her "Fifi") takes the post down in the latter part of the afternoon. I suppose she could be prying through my letters before she sends them. But if I am honest, I cannot imagine her ever doing anything that would displease her "Charles." It is rather strange that she addresses Mr. Westley by his given name, but she has always seemed more like the mother of the household than hired help -- even instructing Mr. Westley himself as to where he should be, and how many minutes he has to spare to avoid tardiness. No, nothing seems out of place with Madame Fifette. The other servants in the house do not bother with me much. There is Andre, the cook, who loves to make me the soup his mother made for him when he was just a boy: Soupe a l'Oignon au Fromage. I request it once a week, I love it so! I cannot fathom that anyone should have cause to do me such harm. Nevertheless, I will have to be vigilant and careful. On the subject of mysteries, I still have yet to discover anything about the painting of the little girl. I snuck into Mr. Westley's study last evening to take another look at her. One thing is certain -- she is beginning to haunt my thoughts. Mr. Westley's home is quickly transforming into a place that disquiets me.
I must admit to you, I laughed out loud at the hilarious thought of you squeaking around the abbey floor like a brown church mouse! I do wonder what Stuart could have wanted with you. Not only did he ask Peter where you were, but he troubled himself to speak with your mother, as well. Perhaps it was to apologize. Whatever the reason, you musn't hide from him any further so that I may be relieved of my dire inquisitiveness!
Well, now that I am certain you are recovered from your recent woes, I shall recount to you a piece of news I left out of my last letter so as not to display inappropriate cheerfulness. At the dinner party with Mr. Rousseau, after much of the evening had passed and just before we departed, the man sitting to my right (who I had not taken much notice of) leaned in and whispered, "Miss Westley, is it?" My heart began to flutter as it became clear he was not a Frenchman, but an American, Maisie! And a handsome one at that! I answered, "Yes?" And then he gripped my hand firmly and began to shake it as if we were old school chums, "My name is Eduard Steichen, it's nice to meet you," he said. I immediately cursed myself for wearing my tea gown. He could see I looked a bit puzzled as to why we were shaking hands and he said with a smile, "I'm sorry, I just couldn't let the evening pass without introducing myself to the only beautiful woman in France who cannot abide to be kissed when greeted." My face flooded red with embarrassment and delight -- embarrassment that Julien Fortescue had indeed made my reputation for me as I feared -- and delight that this stranger had called me beautiful. "I'm here in Paris for awhile trying to decide if I am a painter or a photographer. What I do know is I should very much like to take your portrait." I stole a quick glance over to his companion for the evening, who sat and beheld this entire amorous exchange between the two of us. She shot me a wicked look and I smiled sweetly back.
Maisie, I must be off. Mr. Rousseau is eagerly awaiting my arrival in the study--just as eagerly as I await his departure. At least Mr. Westley was benevolent enough to cut back my tutoring to only three days per week.
It is my opinion that you should don your best dress and go find Stuart straightway and ask him why it is he needed to speak with you so desperately! And then write me with all due haste!
Yours,
Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
14 Bathurst Mews
London
23 October 1902
Dear Maisie,
I'm glad to hear your unfortunate event has not troubled you too much more than it should.
The little note you discovered that belonged to my father is most curious, indeed. I have racked my brain trying to think; who in this household could be invading my privacy? Madame Fifi (who's surname is Lafayette ... Fifette Lafayette ... and to think she is bothered by my calling her "Fifi") takes the post down in the latter part of the afternoon. I suppose she could be prying through my letters before she sends them. But if I am honest, I cannot imagine her ever doing anything that would displease her "Charles." It is rather strange that she addresses Mr. Westley by his given name, but she has always seemed more like the mother of the household than hired help -- even instructing Mr. Westley himself as to where he should be, and how many minutes he has to spare to avoid tardiness. No, nothing seems out of place with Madame Fifette. The other servants in the house do not bother with me much. There is Andre, the cook, who loves to make me the soup his mother made for him when he was just a boy: Soupe a l'Oignon au Fromage. I request it once a week, I love it so! I cannot fathom that anyone should have cause to do me such harm. Nevertheless, I will have to be vigilant and careful. On the subject of mysteries, I still have yet to discover anything about the painting of the little girl. I snuck into Mr. Westley's study last evening to take another look at her. One thing is certain -- she is beginning to haunt my thoughts. Mr. Westley's home is quickly transforming into a place that disquiets me.
I must admit to you, I laughed out loud at the hilarious thought of you squeaking around the abbey floor like a brown church mouse! I do wonder what Stuart could have wanted with you. Not only did he ask Peter where you were, but he troubled himself to speak with your mother, as well. Perhaps it was to apologize. Whatever the reason, you musn't hide from him any further so that I may be relieved of my dire inquisitiveness!
Well, now that I am certain you are recovered from your recent woes, I shall recount to you a piece of news I left out of my last letter so as not to display inappropriate cheerfulness. At the dinner party with Mr. Rousseau, after much of the evening had passed and just before we departed, the man sitting to my right (who I had not taken much notice of) leaned in and whispered, "Miss Westley, is it?" My heart began to flutter as it became clear he was not a Frenchman, but an American, Maisie! And a handsome one at that! I answered, "Yes?" And then he gripped my hand firmly and began to shake it as if we were old school chums, "My name is Eduard Steichen, it's nice to meet you," he said. I immediately cursed myself for wearing my tea gown. He could see I looked a bit puzzled as to why we were shaking hands and he said with a smile, "I'm sorry, I just couldn't let the evening pass without introducing myself to the only beautiful woman in France who cannot abide to be kissed when greeted." My face flooded red with embarrassment and delight -- embarrassment that Julien Fortescue had indeed made my reputation for me as I feared -- and delight that this stranger had called me beautiful. "I'm here in Paris for awhile trying to decide if I am a painter or a photographer. What I do know is I should very much like to take your portrait." I stole a quick glance over to his companion for the evening, who sat and beheld this entire amorous exchange between the two of us. She shot me a wicked look and I smiled sweetly back.
Maisie, I must be off. Mr. Rousseau is eagerly awaiting my arrival in the study--just as eagerly as I await his departure. At least Mr. Westley was benevolent enough to cut back my tutoring to only three days per week.
It is my opinion that you should don your best dress and go find Stuart straightway and ask him why it is he needed to speak with you so desperately! And then write me with all due haste!
Yours,
Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
Letter 14 - The Note Under the Pew
Miss Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
14 October 1902
Dearest Addie,
Please do not fret over me. I must admit I have been a bit less adventurous of late when it comes to roaming London on my own, but other than that I have recovered from my frightful brush with danger quite smartly. Peter has not spoken of the incident, and I have not dared to mention it to him, although I am particularly curious as to how he managed to appear in the nick of time that dreadful evening, what he said to my attacker (who shall not receive the honor of a proper name from me!), and why he has not exposed my egregious behaviour to Dad. I had judged Peter too harshly, as I said, but he continues to act his usual pompous self in other matters, and I can't help but wonder why his mercy applies to this particular incident but not to any others. For instance, only yesterday he was teasing me relentlessly for hiding from Stuart Hill at church on Sunday, and just this morning he seemed to think it necessary to lecture me regarding the improper way I was using my fork to cut my egg. Still, it is a bit of a mystery. At first I believed that Peter had simply come to fetch me upon discovering I was not at home, that Miss Highmore had indeed asked him to take her home early due to a headache. You may imagine my surprise, then, when I overheard Miss Highmore, returning from a ride in the park with Miss Loxley and Emily Carrington, complain to her companions regarding her escort: “Mr. Bristow could not be bothered to stay for the entirety of your garden party, Emily, and he left so suddenly that I was forced to beg for conveyance home from my least favorite cousin.” Now I think on it, I am not entirely sure Peter has been out with Miss Highmore since that night. If they are quarreling, I hope I am not the cause, for Peter’s sake. At any rate, I have begun to think that perhaps Peter never believed my lie in the first place, and came home expressly to expose my falsehood, having known or suspected I would sneak out to the dinner party. Whatever the case may be, I remain indebted to his well-timed arrival and his kindness in the matter of my rescue, so I will return what goodness to him I can in kind.
I must tell you of the curiosity I happened upon at church two days ago. As we were leaving after the service I spotted Stuart Hill in the doorway, turning his head this way and that as though looking for someone. Stuart is hardly a member of our parish, and I doubt whether he often darkens the church door in any case, so I was taken rather by surprise. Peter was a good way ahead of me, and I saw Stuart lay a hand on Peter’s shoulder and seem to make some sort of inquiry. I knew the moment I saw a wicked smile bloom on Peter’s face that Stuart had asked after me, and that Peter would give away my location without a qualm. So I ducked, Addie. I was standing near your family’s pew, and I just dropped to the floor and crawled under the bench, for all the world like a 3-year-old child who wishes to avoid a spanking. You have my permission to laugh, Addie, as I’m sure it was quite hilarious. Peter certainly thinks so, as he told me later that the sight of me, wide-eyed, sinking from view so suddenly, was the single most humorous sight he had beheld in weeks. Now, perhaps I should explain. Although I have seen Stuart since the time I made an absolute clown of myself by shouting at him in the park (and I did not drop dead of humiliation, although I dearly wished it), I have not yet spoken to him in the absence of other company. I could only guess why Stuart should be searching for me in particular, but I was keen to avoid a private conversation with him, as I seem to have a low tolerance for his teasing, and the result is nearly always the demise of my self-restraint. Therefore, I ducked. Peter told me later that he was so incapacitated by gales of laughter that Stuart moved on to ask Mum as to my whereabouts, and left shortly thereafter as Mum had not the slightest idea that I was, at that precise moment, staring at her hem from under your pew. Again, you may laugh. It was not my finest moment, Addie, but it proved opportune. As I huddled there, waiting for the church to empty so I could make my escape, I spied a scrap of paper on the floor. Not having much else to occupy my time, I picked it up. It was a note to your father, and it read as follows:
Westley,
Yes, but she supposes herself to be a dead child.
I must also caution you that it would not
be prudent for you to continue to try me.
I am at your service, so long as you hold
true to your end of our mutual agreement.
B.
Whatever could it mean, Addie? The first line of the note appears to be an answer – if only we knew the question! It must have slipped from your father’s possession during the sermon. It is clearly addressed to him, but as for the author of the note, “B” could be almost anyone. I can’t help but wonder if the “she” refers to you, Addie? Is it possible that your father has got a spy in Paris? Perhaps a servant in your uncle’s employ? What is Madame Fifette’s surname? I am likely jumping at shadows, Addie, but it worries me a bit. It seems that someone of your father’s acquaintance knows how you feel about your mother and father’s abandonment, and has perhaps been promised compensation for passing on such knowledge. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but I did notice that your mother had on a fine new hat at church, and that your father seemed quite proud of her appearance ... perhaps your father’s gambling has paid off for once, and our “B” is aware of it. I would advise him to collect quickly, however, as your father’s wealth tends to be fleeting. I mean no offense to your family, Addie, but you know it better than I do. At any rate, I would advise you to be careful to whom you confide your true feelings. Perhaps you can discover the traitor, and ask Mr. Westley to dismiss him. I do not like the idea of you being watched, Addie. I do not like it a bit.
Before I close I must comment on your letter. Addie, dearest, darling Addie! I care not in the least if you are known as the most difficult and unmannerly girl in Paris. In fact, I would be proud! It is your spirit that sets you apart, darling, and if Mr. Rousseau does not like it he can jump in the Seine! To think of him lecturing you on etiquette, after he and his companions neglected you all evening without regard for your entertainment or welfare! I hope, at the very least, that your words have dissuaded him from attempting to court you. After all, if he desires a submissive French lady, I say let him have her, and may he remain happily bored stiff for the rest of his cursed days!
I will write again soon, dearest, and do be careful.
Sincerely,
Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
14 October 1902
Dearest Addie,
Please do not fret over me. I must admit I have been a bit less adventurous of late when it comes to roaming London on my own, but other than that I have recovered from my frightful brush with danger quite smartly. Peter has not spoken of the incident, and I have not dared to mention it to him, although I am particularly curious as to how he managed to appear in the nick of time that dreadful evening, what he said to my attacker (who shall not receive the honor of a proper name from me!), and why he has not exposed my egregious behaviour to Dad. I had judged Peter too harshly, as I said, but he continues to act his usual pompous self in other matters, and I can't help but wonder why his mercy applies to this particular incident but not to any others. For instance, only yesterday he was teasing me relentlessly for hiding from Stuart Hill at church on Sunday, and just this morning he seemed to think it necessary to lecture me regarding the improper way I was using my fork to cut my egg. Still, it is a bit of a mystery. At first I believed that Peter had simply come to fetch me upon discovering I was not at home, that Miss Highmore had indeed asked him to take her home early due to a headache. You may imagine my surprise, then, when I overheard Miss Highmore, returning from a ride in the park with Miss Loxley and Emily Carrington, complain to her companions regarding her escort: “Mr. Bristow could not be bothered to stay for the entirety of your garden party, Emily, and he left so suddenly that I was forced to beg for conveyance home from my least favorite cousin.” Now I think on it, I am not entirely sure Peter has been out with Miss Highmore since that night. If they are quarreling, I hope I am not the cause, for Peter’s sake. At any rate, I have begun to think that perhaps Peter never believed my lie in the first place, and came home expressly to expose my falsehood, having known or suspected I would sneak out to the dinner party. Whatever the case may be, I remain indebted to his well-timed arrival and his kindness in the matter of my rescue, so I will return what goodness to him I can in kind.
I must tell you of the curiosity I happened upon at church two days ago. As we were leaving after the service I spotted Stuart Hill in the doorway, turning his head this way and that as though looking for someone. Stuart is hardly a member of our parish, and I doubt whether he often darkens the church door in any case, so I was taken rather by surprise. Peter was a good way ahead of me, and I saw Stuart lay a hand on Peter’s shoulder and seem to make some sort of inquiry. I knew the moment I saw a wicked smile bloom on Peter’s face that Stuart had asked after me, and that Peter would give away my location without a qualm. So I ducked, Addie. I was standing near your family’s pew, and I just dropped to the floor and crawled under the bench, for all the world like a 3-year-old child who wishes to avoid a spanking. You have my permission to laugh, Addie, as I’m sure it was quite hilarious. Peter certainly thinks so, as he told me later that the sight of me, wide-eyed, sinking from view so suddenly, was the single most humorous sight he had beheld in weeks. Now, perhaps I should explain. Although I have seen Stuart since the time I made an absolute clown of myself by shouting at him in the park (and I did not drop dead of humiliation, although I dearly wished it), I have not yet spoken to him in the absence of other company. I could only guess why Stuart should be searching for me in particular, but I was keen to avoid a private conversation with him, as I seem to have a low tolerance for his teasing, and the result is nearly always the demise of my self-restraint. Therefore, I ducked. Peter told me later that he was so incapacitated by gales of laughter that Stuart moved on to ask Mum as to my whereabouts, and left shortly thereafter as Mum had not the slightest idea that I was, at that precise moment, staring at her hem from under your pew. Again, you may laugh. It was not my finest moment, Addie, but it proved opportune. As I huddled there, waiting for the church to empty so I could make my escape, I spied a scrap of paper on the floor. Not having much else to occupy my time, I picked it up. It was a note to your father, and it read as follows:
Westley,
Yes, but she supposes herself to be a dead child.
I must also caution you that it would not
be prudent for you to continue to try me.
I am at your service, so long as you hold
true to your end of our mutual agreement.
B.
Whatever could it mean, Addie? The first line of the note appears to be an answer – if only we knew the question! It must have slipped from your father’s possession during the sermon. It is clearly addressed to him, but as for the author of the note, “B” could be almost anyone. I can’t help but wonder if the “she” refers to you, Addie? Is it possible that your father has got a spy in Paris? Perhaps a servant in your uncle’s employ? What is Madame Fifette’s surname? I am likely jumping at shadows, Addie, but it worries me a bit. It seems that someone of your father’s acquaintance knows how you feel about your mother and father’s abandonment, and has perhaps been promised compensation for passing on such knowledge. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but I did notice that your mother had on a fine new hat at church, and that your father seemed quite proud of her appearance ... perhaps your father’s gambling has paid off for once, and our “B” is aware of it. I would advise him to collect quickly, however, as your father’s wealth tends to be fleeting. I mean no offense to your family, Addie, but you know it better than I do. At any rate, I would advise you to be careful to whom you confide your true feelings. Perhaps you can discover the traitor, and ask Mr. Westley to dismiss him. I do not like the idea of you being watched, Addie. I do not like it a bit.
Before I close I must comment on your letter. Addie, dearest, darling Addie! I care not in the least if you are known as the most difficult and unmannerly girl in Paris. In fact, I would be proud! It is your spirit that sets you apart, darling, and if Mr. Rousseau does not like it he can jump in the Seine! To think of him lecturing you on etiquette, after he and his companions neglected you all evening without regard for your entertainment or welfare! I hope, at the very least, that your words have dissuaded him from attempting to court you. After all, if he desires a submissive French lady, I say let him have her, and may he remain happily bored stiff for the rest of his cursed days!
I will write again soon, dearest, and do be careful.
Sincerely,
Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London
Letter 13 - The Shaming of Rousseau
Miss Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London
3 October 1902
Dear Maisie,
I am almost speechless upon reading your last letter. I wish that I were there to sit with you and offer you some alleviation. How could you have ever predicted the atrocious intentions Mr. Rothschild had for that evening? You must stop being so hard on yourself, Maisie. All that matters now is that you are safe and sound. Thank heavens for Peter.
I am not sure it is best to share all the events of my evening with Mr. Rousseau in light of your recent trauma. I'm sure what I will share will amuse you, though.
Madame Fifi insisted on helping me get ready for the evening. She was appalled when I would not change out of my afternoon tea gown for dinner. I simply did not care enough to make any sort of statement to impress Monsieur Rousseau. Besides, I rather like my tea gowns. I wore my hair in a simple chignon and spent little time on my appearance in general. When Mr. Rousseau arrived, he looked a bit confused and asked, "Are you not yet ready?" To which I replied, "I'm quite ready, sir. Is there something the matter?" Mr. Rousseau was quick to respond that I looked very fit. I handed my daisies to Madame Fifi and off we went.
We arrived at some fellow's home whose name I did not bother keeping track of. We were ushered into the parlour where there were two other couples. They were prattling away in French and as we sat, Mr. Rousseau immediately joined in the conversation. From what I could tell it was about a lecture given at La Sorbonne. I didn't speak a word, Maisie. After a couple of hours of this, I was quite put out. The evening was coming to a close and I began to say my goodbyes in French when Mr. Rousseau, in the presence of everyone in attendance said, "Tut, tut, Miss Westley, (as he lightly slapped my hand) you put zee accent in all zee wrong places! Forgive her!" I was so embarassed by it I could not speak. I did not say a word to Mr. Rousseau the entire way home.
Upon my arrival at Mr. Westley's estate, I went straightway to my uncle and told him of my disgust concerning Mr. Rousseau and that I would see no more of him as a suitor, nor would I as a pupil of his. Mr. Westley tried his best to discourage me, stating that Vaughn Rousseau could greatly elevate my status here in France. He said that I would soon be known to all of Paris as a most difficult girl. He admonished me to be mindful of my father's grave debts and that if I were to be married, there would be no way for his gambling friend to collect me. I could feel the tears beginning to pool in my eyes. I could see his regret in speaking so plainly to me. I could think of nothing more to say, so I retired to bed.
The next afternoon, I walked slowly down the hall where I customarily greet Mr. Rousseau. I hoped above all hopes I would walk into the library to find it empty. I hoped Mr. Westley had seen the futility of his plans for me and my weaselly French tutor. As I turned the corner and approached the library, I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. I stood in the doorway and opened my eyes to find a furious Mr. Rousseau standing with his arms crossed. This time there were no daisies and no chocolates. He said, "sit." I was not entirely sure what to say, so I sat. For the better part of an hour Mr. Rousseau lectured me on the proper etiquette of a French lady--which included attire, dinner manners and most importantly, the befitting submissive nature of a woman to her escort. Maisie, I was so unnerved by this that without restraint I responded, "Monsieur Rousseau, first and foremost I am not a French lady, I am a British lady. I am ever so sorry to have granted you the kind favour of my company last evening--it shan't happen again. I am not your child to reprimand, Mr. Rousseau. You may save your lecturing for your own children, should some poor woman ever have the misfortune of bearing you any!" And with that, I slammed my French book down onto the desk and left the room.
I shall tell you more once you have regained your spirits. Please, Maisie, try not to let your evening with Mr. Rothschild weigh so heavily on your heart. Maybe there is some way I can come stay with you for a short time. Mr. Westley would be most agreeable to the thought in light of my recent unladylike behaviour. Please respond as soon as you are able. I am filled with worry about you.
Yours,
Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
14 Bathurst Mews
London
3 October 1902
Dear Maisie,
I am almost speechless upon reading your last letter. I wish that I were there to sit with you and offer you some alleviation. How could you have ever predicted the atrocious intentions Mr. Rothschild had for that evening? You must stop being so hard on yourself, Maisie. All that matters now is that you are safe and sound. Thank heavens for Peter.
I am not sure it is best to share all the events of my evening with Mr. Rousseau in light of your recent trauma. I'm sure what I will share will amuse you, though.
Madame Fifi insisted on helping me get ready for the evening. She was appalled when I would not change out of my afternoon tea gown for dinner. I simply did not care enough to make any sort of statement to impress Monsieur Rousseau. Besides, I rather like my tea gowns. I wore my hair in a simple chignon and spent little time on my appearance in general. When Mr. Rousseau arrived, he looked a bit confused and asked, "Are you not yet ready?" To which I replied, "I'm quite ready, sir. Is there something the matter?" Mr. Rousseau was quick to respond that I looked very fit. I handed my daisies to Madame Fifi and off we went.
We arrived at some fellow's home whose name I did not bother keeping track of. We were ushered into the parlour where there were two other couples. They were prattling away in French and as we sat, Mr. Rousseau immediately joined in the conversation. From what I could tell it was about a lecture given at La Sorbonne. I didn't speak a word, Maisie. After a couple of hours of this, I was quite put out. The evening was coming to a close and I began to say my goodbyes in French when Mr. Rousseau, in the presence of everyone in attendance said, "Tut, tut, Miss Westley, (as he lightly slapped my hand) you put zee accent in all zee wrong places! Forgive her!" I was so embarassed by it I could not speak. I did not say a word to Mr. Rousseau the entire way home.
Upon my arrival at Mr. Westley's estate, I went straightway to my uncle and told him of my disgust concerning Mr. Rousseau and that I would see no more of him as a suitor, nor would I as a pupil of his. Mr. Westley tried his best to discourage me, stating that Vaughn Rousseau could greatly elevate my status here in France. He said that I would soon be known to all of Paris as a most difficult girl. He admonished me to be mindful of my father's grave debts and that if I were to be married, there would be no way for his gambling friend to collect me. I could feel the tears beginning to pool in my eyes. I could see his regret in speaking so plainly to me. I could think of nothing more to say, so I retired to bed.
The next afternoon, I walked slowly down the hall where I customarily greet Mr. Rousseau. I hoped above all hopes I would walk into the library to find it empty. I hoped Mr. Westley had seen the futility of his plans for me and my weaselly French tutor. As I turned the corner and approached the library, I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. I stood in the doorway and opened my eyes to find a furious Mr. Rousseau standing with his arms crossed. This time there were no daisies and no chocolates. He said, "sit." I was not entirely sure what to say, so I sat. For the better part of an hour Mr. Rousseau lectured me on the proper etiquette of a French lady--which included attire, dinner manners and most importantly, the befitting submissive nature of a woman to her escort. Maisie, I was so unnerved by this that without restraint I responded, "Monsieur Rousseau, first and foremost I am not a French lady, I am a British lady. I am ever so sorry to have granted you the kind favour of my company last evening--it shan't happen again. I am not your child to reprimand, Mr. Rousseau. You may save your lecturing for your own children, should some poor woman ever have the misfortune of bearing you any!" And with that, I slammed my French book down onto the desk and left the room.
I shall tell you more once you have regained your spirits. Please, Maisie, try not to let your evening with Mr. Rothschild weigh so heavily on your heart. Maybe there is some way I can come stay with you for a short time. Mr. Westley would be most agreeable to the thought in light of my recent unladylike behaviour. Please respond as soon as you are able. I am filled with worry about you.
Yours,
Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
Letter 12 - Dinner with Sir Rothschild
Miss Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
22 September 1902
Dearest Addie,
I am a fool. For all my education, I have the common sense of a tea cozy. Peter told me not to go to Mr. Rothschild’s dinner party, but I wouldn’t listen. How could I have been so blind? But I am getting ahead of myself. You deserve the whole story, Addie, and I shall tell it to you, although you mayn’t think much of me when I am through. If you think me an imbecile, I shall not have the inclination (nor the evidence) to argue with you.
I began scheming the moment I read your letter, Addie. I posted my favorable reply to Mr. Rothschild’s invitation along with your letter. I was intent on seeing Mr. Rothschild again and getting some useful answers from him. I had planned to tell Mum and Dad that I would be attending the garden party at Emily Carrington’s Saturday evening, but, as Peter was also invited, I asked him to keep my secret. Peter was irate. He had heard all about my previous disastrous visit from Dad, and was really quite rude to me. “Stop acting like a brainless child, Maisie. You are not going anywhere near that man, and I had thought better of your taste.” I explained to him my reasoning, but he wasn’t having any. He threatened to tell Dad, which would have erased any chance I had of getting my answers, and so I did something I don’t think I’ve ever done before in my life. I lied to Peter. I pretended to sulk and said in that case I would simply stay home Saturday evening, “As I’m sure, Peter, you would be quite disgraced to be seen in public with such a dimwitted, tasteless child.” Peter was unrepentant, but he seemed to believe my falsehood. Luckily, as I thought, the Carrington’s garden party was to begin at six o’clock, and Mr. Rothschild’s dinner party at half past seven. Peter had departed by half past five and Mum and Dad were away at a glee singing. I put on my best dress, Addie, and did my hair up with my new pompadour frame, and I felt quite grown up and excited about my little adventure. As Kensington is so near, I was able to walk to Mr. Rothschild’s residence without incident. I arrived at quarter to eight o’clock, and was ushered in to a lovely sitting room (not the parlour Dad and I had occupied on our previous visit) lavished with fragrant flowers. Mr. Rothschild joined me shortly, and it was only after we had exchanged pleasantries for more than quarter of an hour that I began to feel uneasy. Where, I began to wonder, were the other guests? I was greatly relieved when my host stood and offered me his arm so as to escort me to the dining room. As we walked out of the sitting room and into the hall, I asked, ever so nonchalantly, if he remembered our earlier conversation about Monsieur Bellefeuille, his old friend from Louis-le-Grand. His face darkened for a moment, Addie, but then he seemed to think better of whatever he had been about to say, and he answered with a simple nod. Encouraged, I inquired as to the name of Mr. Bellefeuille’s daughter, and reminded him of my quest to find the author of the inscription in the book. Again, he looked loathe to speak of it, but schooled himself and answered quite civilly, “Mademoiselle Bellefeuille was a pretty little thing; we used to call her Ellie.” At this point we had reached the dining room, and I was again struck with the distinct feeling that something was amiss. It was much too quiet for a dinner party. To my horror, Addie, the dining room was perfectly empty but for a small table, set for two. I stood frozen on the threshold, letting my arm slip from my host’s as he continued into the dining room. “What is the matter, my dear?” he asked, returning to my side. I couldn’t speak, Addie. I simply shook my head and allowed him to lead me to the table and help me into my chair. I cannot remember a single thing that I ate that night (if indeed I ate at all), nor a single word that I spoke during the meal. I must have said something, as Mr. Rothschild continued to make conversation as he ate, but all of my thoughts were focused on my dilemma, and I could only wonder desperately how I was to get myself out of the ridiculous mess I had so willingly wandered into. I am sure I must have looked a sight, likely as pale as a sheet and trembling, too. When it seemed the meal would soon be over, I seized my chance to escape. I stood, and excused myself, and began making my way to the door. I had not gone five steps before Mr. Rothschild was there beside me, wrapping his arm firmly about my waist and entreating me to stay a while longer. Addie, from the moment I saw the dining table, I had been under the extremely uncomfortable assumption that Mr. Rothschild intended to court me, and I had no intention of becoming his eighth wife! It very quickly became apparent, however, that he had nothing so honourable in mind. I have never been more terrified in my entire existence. Not when Peter dressed up as a vampire when I was only a child, nor when one of Master Loxley’s horses spooked while I was riding him, nor even when I was mistakenly locked in the dark library at Cheltenham over night. This was a whole new kind of fear, Addie, and I suddenly thought I might have an inkling of how you felt when your cursed father brought home that drunken lout to claim you as his wife. By the time I had recovered my senses enough to struggle, it was too late. That horrible old man had pinned me to the wall, Addie, and I tried to scream but he only smiled and said, “These walls are thick, my dear, and we two are alone tonight. Come now, don’t be difficult.” I stopped screaming, and all I could manage was a breathy, “You --,” before I fainted dead away. Just before everything went black a single, despairing thought flitted across my mind: I hoped never to awake again. But I did awake, Addie, and the voice I heard was more welcome than any other sound I could have hoped for. Peter was there. Peter was cradling my hand in his, and (rather contradictorily) slapping my face with the other, beseeching me to wake up. My assailant was no where to be seen, and I gratefully allowed Peter to help me up from the dining room floor and walk me home, as I would never have made it alone. As it was, Peter might as well have carried me most of the way. I was crying so hysterically I could not even see properly. I was not harmed, Addie, so do not worry. Peter must have arrived just as I fainted, and he would not tell me what he said to Mr. Rothschild, but he assured me I would not be bothered by the beastly wretch again. I would have expected Peter to lecture me the entire way home, to tell Dad of my childish and dangerous behaviour, and to have believed me to be the densest and most inexperienced creature who ever took a breath. I cannot be sure of his opinion of me, of course, but he maintained a concerned silence as we made our way back to the Mews, without so much as a single, “I told you so.” He put me to bed and didn’t speak a word to Mum or Dad when they returned shortly thereafter, saying only that he had returned from the garden party early as Frances had a headache.
I scarcely left my room for a week, and Mum was sure I was ill, but I wouldn’t allow her to call for the doctor. Forgive me, dearest Addie, for envying your exile and distress. And for abusing Peter in my previous letters. I have learnt better on both accounts. The only other good thing that has come of my misadventure is the tiny bit of knowledge I have gained regarding the inscription in the book. Luc’s daughter was called “Ellie,” so perhaps we can attempt to locate an Éléonore, Élise, or Eloise Bellefeuille.
I am quite content, at the moment, to sit at home of an evening, listening to Mum and Peter discuss cricket, or horses, or any old thing. Please do not disdain me for my folly. I eagerly await your next letter, and the description of your (comparatively) happy dinner engagement.
Sincerely,
Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
22 September 1902
Dearest Addie,
I am a fool. For all my education, I have the common sense of a tea cozy. Peter told me not to go to Mr. Rothschild’s dinner party, but I wouldn’t listen. How could I have been so blind? But I am getting ahead of myself. You deserve the whole story, Addie, and I shall tell it to you, although you mayn’t think much of me when I am through. If you think me an imbecile, I shall not have the inclination (nor the evidence) to argue with you.
I began scheming the moment I read your letter, Addie. I posted my favorable reply to Mr. Rothschild’s invitation along with your letter. I was intent on seeing Mr. Rothschild again and getting some useful answers from him. I had planned to tell Mum and Dad that I would be attending the garden party at Emily Carrington’s Saturday evening, but, as Peter was also invited, I asked him to keep my secret. Peter was irate. He had heard all about my previous disastrous visit from Dad, and was really quite rude to me. “Stop acting like a brainless child, Maisie. You are not going anywhere near that man, and I had thought better of your taste.” I explained to him my reasoning, but he wasn’t having any. He threatened to tell Dad, which would have erased any chance I had of getting my answers, and so I did something I don’t think I’ve ever done before in my life. I lied to Peter. I pretended to sulk and said in that case I would simply stay home Saturday evening, “As I’m sure, Peter, you would be quite disgraced to be seen in public with such a dimwitted, tasteless child.” Peter was unrepentant, but he seemed to believe my falsehood. Luckily, as I thought, the Carrington’s garden party was to begin at six o’clock, and Mr. Rothschild’s dinner party at half past seven. Peter had departed by half past five and Mum and Dad were away at a glee singing. I put on my best dress, Addie, and did my hair up with my new pompadour frame, and I felt quite grown up and excited about my little adventure. As Kensington is so near, I was able to walk to Mr. Rothschild’s residence without incident. I arrived at quarter to eight o’clock, and was ushered in to a lovely sitting room (not the parlour Dad and I had occupied on our previous visit) lavished with fragrant flowers. Mr. Rothschild joined me shortly, and it was only after we had exchanged pleasantries for more than quarter of an hour that I began to feel uneasy. Where, I began to wonder, were the other guests? I was greatly relieved when my host stood and offered me his arm so as to escort me to the dining room. As we walked out of the sitting room and into the hall, I asked, ever so nonchalantly, if he remembered our earlier conversation about Monsieur Bellefeuille, his old friend from Louis-le-Grand. His face darkened for a moment, Addie, but then he seemed to think better of whatever he had been about to say, and he answered with a simple nod. Encouraged, I inquired as to the name of Mr. Bellefeuille’s daughter, and reminded him of my quest to find the author of the inscription in the book. Again, he looked loathe to speak of it, but schooled himself and answered quite civilly, “Mademoiselle Bellefeuille was a pretty little thing; we used to call her Ellie.” At this point we had reached the dining room, and I was again struck with the distinct feeling that something was amiss. It was much too quiet for a dinner party. To my horror, Addie, the dining room was perfectly empty but for a small table, set for two. I stood frozen on the threshold, letting my arm slip from my host’s as he continued into the dining room. “What is the matter, my dear?” he asked, returning to my side. I couldn’t speak, Addie. I simply shook my head and allowed him to lead me to the table and help me into my chair. I cannot remember a single thing that I ate that night (if indeed I ate at all), nor a single word that I spoke during the meal. I must have said something, as Mr. Rothschild continued to make conversation as he ate, but all of my thoughts were focused on my dilemma, and I could only wonder desperately how I was to get myself out of the ridiculous mess I had so willingly wandered into. I am sure I must have looked a sight, likely as pale as a sheet and trembling, too. When it seemed the meal would soon be over, I seized my chance to escape. I stood, and excused myself, and began making my way to the door. I had not gone five steps before Mr. Rothschild was there beside me, wrapping his arm firmly about my waist and entreating me to stay a while longer. Addie, from the moment I saw the dining table, I had been under the extremely uncomfortable assumption that Mr. Rothschild intended to court me, and I had no intention of becoming his eighth wife! It very quickly became apparent, however, that he had nothing so honourable in mind. I have never been more terrified in my entire existence. Not when Peter dressed up as a vampire when I was only a child, nor when one of Master Loxley’s horses spooked while I was riding him, nor even when I was mistakenly locked in the dark library at Cheltenham over night. This was a whole new kind of fear, Addie, and I suddenly thought I might have an inkling of how you felt when your cursed father brought home that drunken lout to claim you as his wife. By the time I had recovered my senses enough to struggle, it was too late. That horrible old man had pinned me to the wall, Addie, and I tried to scream but he only smiled and said, “These walls are thick, my dear, and we two are alone tonight. Come now, don’t be difficult.” I stopped screaming, and all I could manage was a breathy, “You --,” before I fainted dead away. Just before everything went black a single, despairing thought flitted across my mind: I hoped never to awake again. But I did awake, Addie, and the voice I heard was more welcome than any other sound I could have hoped for. Peter was there. Peter was cradling my hand in his, and (rather contradictorily) slapping my face with the other, beseeching me to wake up. My assailant was no where to be seen, and I gratefully allowed Peter to help me up from the dining room floor and walk me home, as I would never have made it alone. As it was, Peter might as well have carried me most of the way. I was crying so hysterically I could not even see properly. I was not harmed, Addie, so do not worry. Peter must have arrived just as I fainted, and he would not tell me what he said to Mr. Rothschild, but he assured me I would not be bothered by the beastly wretch again. I would have expected Peter to lecture me the entire way home, to tell Dad of my childish and dangerous behaviour, and to have believed me to be the densest and most inexperienced creature who ever took a breath. I cannot be sure of his opinion of me, of course, but he maintained a concerned silence as we made our way back to the Mews, without so much as a single, “I told you so.” He put me to bed and didn’t speak a word to Mum or Dad when they returned shortly thereafter, saying only that he had returned from the garden party early as Frances had a headache.
I scarcely left my room for a week, and Mum was sure I was ill, but I wouldn’t allow her to call for the doctor. Forgive me, dearest Addie, for envying your exile and distress. And for abusing Peter in my previous letters. I have learnt better on both accounts. The only other good thing that has come of my misadventure is the tiny bit of knowledge I have gained regarding the inscription in the book. Luc’s daughter was called “Ellie,” so perhaps we can attempt to locate an Éléonore, Élise, or Eloise Bellefeuille.
I am quite content, at the moment, to sit at home of an evening, listening to Mum and Peter discuss cricket, or horses, or any old thing. Please do not disdain me for my folly. I eagerly await your next letter, and the description of your (comparatively) happy dinner engagement.
Sincerely,
Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London
Letter 11 - Obligation
Miss Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London
8 September 1902
Dearest Maisie,
Thank you for your words of comfort. It means so much to me to have you as my dear friend. My mother's letter was unsettling to say the least but there is not a thing I can do about it. I am resigned to settling into life here in Paris. My days have been quite monopolized by the French language. The scheming Mr. Westley has seen fit that I am tutored every day of the week, except for Sunday, of course. Just the sight of Mr. Rousseau makes me ever so slightly ill. It is not that he is repulsive physically, he is not. If it were not for his condescending responses to all of my questions, I would not mind his company. But he is never so much as a minute late and, as I said before, always in the possession of white daisies which he then proceeds to force on me. Indeed, I am beginning to quite disdain the daisy. Yesterday Mr. Rousseau (at the advice of Mr. Westley) decided it was a fine day for a walk. I had my parasol with me, as it was quite bright that day. We passed a very lovely cafe. As we passed, Mr. Rousseau would say, "Now, what is zees?" as he pointed to a fork and I would say, "le fourchette." And on he would continue with the glass, the napkin, and so on. Clearly, the most romantic walk of my life. The only thing of interest, I daresay, was the way Mr. Rousseau began to sweat and stumble upon his words and finally asked if I would be so kind as to join him at an upcoming gathering to take place in a few days time. That is when I dropped my parasol. I was so taken aback. I had not had time to gather myself and make any sort of reply when Mr. Rousseau cleared his throat and asked once more if I would attend this small gathering with him. Maisie, what else could I do? I had to say "yes."
So it seems we both have dinner parties to attend. Only you will be in the presence of Queen Victoria's Sir Rothschild, and I will be in the sad company of Mr. Rousseau. Do not for one moment envy my being in Paris! I can hardly wait to hear from you.
Yours,
Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
14 Bathurst Mews
London
8 September 1902
Dearest Maisie,
Thank you for your words of comfort. It means so much to me to have you as my dear friend. My mother's letter was unsettling to say the least but there is not a thing I can do about it. I am resigned to settling into life here in Paris. My days have been quite monopolized by the French language. The scheming Mr. Westley has seen fit that I am tutored every day of the week, except for Sunday, of course. Just the sight of Mr. Rousseau makes me ever so slightly ill. It is not that he is repulsive physically, he is not. If it were not for his condescending responses to all of my questions, I would not mind his company. But he is never so much as a minute late and, as I said before, always in the possession of white daisies which he then proceeds to force on me. Indeed, I am beginning to quite disdain the daisy. Yesterday Mr. Rousseau (at the advice of Mr. Westley) decided it was a fine day for a walk. I had my parasol with me, as it was quite bright that day. We passed a very lovely cafe. As we passed, Mr. Rousseau would say, "Now, what is zees?" as he pointed to a fork and I would say, "le fourchette." And on he would continue with the glass, the napkin, and so on. Clearly, the most romantic walk of my life. The only thing of interest, I daresay, was the way Mr. Rousseau began to sweat and stumble upon his words and finally asked if I would be so kind as to join him at an upcoming gathering to take place in a few days time. That is when I dropped my parasol. I was so taken aback. I had not had time to gather myself and make any sort of reply when Mr. Rousseau cleared his throat and asked once more if I would attend this small gathering with him. Maisie, what else could I do? I had to say "yes."
So it seems we both have dinner parties to attend. Only you will be in the presence of Queen Victoria's Sir Rothschild, and I will be in the sad company of Mr. Rousseau. Do not for one moment envy my being in Paris! I can hardly wait to hear from you.
Yours,
Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
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