Miss Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
7 May 1903
Dearest Addie,
I hope you have asked some of your "ever-mounting" questions of your hero. What little interest can be roused in me has been excited by the idea that I may soon know how you came to be rescued, and why Mr. Rousseau did not convey you to your uncle himself. I am sure you were quite overwhelmed at finding yourself alone with such a formidable man, and one you have discovered yourself to be so indebted to, yet I do wish you would find the courage to question him. Perhaps it would put my mind at ease were I to know more intimately the details of what he has sacrificed for you, for I must ask, Addie--are you truly happy with Mr. Rousseau? His actions were admirable in looking for you, fighting for you--I cannot deny the romance of it. Perhaps love is not the thing of spontaneous passion and invulnerable feeling I had used to think it was ... perhaps we must learn to love. The gradual and steady affection as must result from careful teaching could not fail us as thoroughly as its more wild and impetuous cousin has already done. If you can grow to love Mr. Rousseau, I cannot advise against it. Yet it is tiresome to be so practical, Addie, and I worry that you may allow him more influence over your delicate affections than he deserves. I do not know. I feel as if I have very little of conviction left in me, and I must strive to find new beliefs that may fill the void, and serve me better than their predecessors. I am sure I should be grateful for such wisdom as I have gained, but I feel nothing like what I should. If this is what it is to be wise, I could almost wish that I had remained foolish. I have spent much time walking and thinking--or riding and thinking--these last weeks. Mum often attempts to persuade me to spend more time in company, as she is quite staunch in the belief that it will soothe my hurts more efficiently than solitude. Of course, she also thinks I am a right little fool to have broken my engagement in the first place. She has never lamented the loss of "such a fine match," for which I am grateful (it is all I hear from anybody else!), but she is convinced that I have only thrown him over out of boredom and that I am now enjoying the drama of my situation too well to give it up so soon. Mum has chided me repeatedly that if I will not have Stuart, I should at least do him the courtesy of not pretending to pine away when I could just as easily call him back. She is determined I shall have a full social schedule this summer, and certain that a new and exciting courtship will prove the cure for my despondency. I have not the courage to tell her that I do not wish for comfort or companionship unless it is Stuart--my perfect Stuart returned to me as he was at Ambleside, when I loved him without doubt or reservation. How really very sad that I should hold so to the ideal picture of a man--even after I have been thoroughly undeceived, and know how false a picture it must always have been. Dad seems to understand my wish for quiet, and I sometimes wonder if he is not suffering a bit himself. Dad and Stuart got on famously, and I think he had looked forward to having him as son-in-law. I have only seen Peter on two occasions since the dissolution of my engagement, and was extremely grateful that he neither exulted in nor regretted the separation. I had dreaded telling him of it, but Dad was kind enough to intervene when Peter inquired rather resentfully after Stuart's health. I might have imagined the minute start of surprise he exhibited when first he learnt of it, and thereafter he avoided the subject admirably.
I haven't much else to tell, but that P.C. Murphy has been coming round of late, and I fear he means to court me. Mum is quite charmed by him, and insisted on having him to tea the week following his first visit to the mews. I will allow that he is a decent sort of fellow, and always seems to have my comfort in mind, but I cannot think of any man with much interest of late. I do admire his character, however. We were left alone for a few minutes in the parlour before tea, and he hastened to communicate privately with me before we could be interrupted. "I must confess to you, Miss Bristow, that I did not have any engagement which would have prevented me from staying to tea last week. I did not like to speak falsely, but it seemed to me that you asked for my company because your excellent manners required it, and not because you wished it. I admire your kindness, but I did not wish to impose on you at such a delicate time. I hope I was right, and that you will forgive my bending of the truth to that end." This was unlooked for, Addie. And I must admit, to the recent particular distress and confusion of my mind, it was a welcome relief to encounter such a willing candour. I expressed something of this to Mr. Murphy, and he seemed rather pleased to have met with my approval. It was a pleasant afternoon, but my lighter spirits did not outlast his stay, and the evening seemed rather worse than usual by comparison.
And now, Addie, I must scold you. I can assure you that Stuart had nothing to do with the deaths of the two Mr. Collins, and I am rather shocked that you would imply any such thing! He may be less virtuous than once I believed him to be, but I cannot comprehend his being a killer. The real Mr. Collins died in an automobile collision--Peter was aware of it as well--so that cannot possibly be laid at Stuart's feet. As for the false Mr. Collins--a man who deals with the sort of fellows who frequent Wapping Wall can hardly expect not to be murdered. He was an odious man, and no doubt had some equally abhorrent business to conduct. And while Peter may be aware of some ill-judged behaviour on Stuart's part, I cannot think he would befriend a man unscrupulous enough to have been involved in such violent activities, much less facilitate a connection between that man and his own sister, no matter how impermanent he may have thought the attachment likely to be. As much as it might satisfy some part of me to vilify Stuart, I cannot really believe him capable of cold-blooded murder. But as for the main of your advice--you are right, of course. I cannot trust Stuart on faith alone. He is not God, but a man, and so he must earn my trust--or do without it. On this I am resolved, and I know it must be right. I only wish I could feel some return of happiness, but I feel instead as if I have nailed shut my own coffin, and must now cope with the darkness. Yet why should Stuart be light and life and happiness to me? It is not fair, Addie. Write to me soon, dearest.
Sincerely,
Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London
Letter 39 - Addendum
Miss Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London
29 April 1903
Dear Maisie,
My heart leapt with compassion for you upon reading your last letter. In addendum to my recent correspondence to you, I should like to relay some thoughts I have regarding Mr. Hill, as I had not yet received your latest news before sending off my own.
I cannot bring myself to spare your emotions, nor to insult your intellect with flowery niceties. Do not trust him, Maisie. I may not be as keen as you are at deciphering the truth of things, but I should think I know the face of a liar. What noble reason can Stuart possibly have in going to such great lengths to shroud the truth concerning Collins' death? I daresay you are too lenient with Mr. Hill. Has it not occurred to you that he may have a more grandiose purpose in keeping things from you? Two dead men can now be counted among Stuart Hill's acquaintance; the Mr. Collins you met in Portobello Market, and the true Mr. Collins whom you discovered to be previously deceased with the help of constable Murphy. What chance is this, Maisie? And what of the night you overheard Stuart and Peter? Your brother has objected venomously to your engagement. Peter left the mews over this, Maisie! Perhaps he knows a side of Stuart Hill that you do not. I can only piece together that Peter has always known Stuart's true character--but it was all in good jest whilst you were merely courting. You must listen to reason! Do not waste another thought upon Mr. Hill, nor in trying to discover new ways to justify his suspicious behaviour. I have no doubt that Mr. Hill feels greatly inclined to secure your trust once more, but do not be fooled--it comes at a price. He wishes for your blind faith in support of these obscure endeavors of his! I will be the first to grant my full blessing upon a decision that reunites you with Stuart, if you can present to me but one semblance of a respectable defense on his behalf.
There is no grand love story to be told here, Maisie. There are simple choices we make each day, some of which draw us closer to security and contentment, others which pull us towards the mire of heartache and dilemma. I do wish I were there to talk with you and to help you make sense of it all. Do write again soon.
Yours,
Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
14 Bathurst Mews
London
29 April 1903
Dear Maisie,
My heart leapt with compassion for you upon reading your last letter. In addendum to my recent correspondence to you, I should like to relay some thoughts I have regarding Mr. Hill, as I had not yet received your latest news before sending off my own.
I cannot bring myself to spare your emotions, nor to insult your intellect with flowery niceties. Do not trust him, Maisie. I may not be as keen as you are at deciphering the truth of things, but I should think I know the face of a liar. What noble reason can Stuart possibly have in going to such great lengths to shroud the truth concerning Collins' death? I daresay you are too lenient with Mr. Hill. Has it not occurred to you that he may have a more grandiose purpose in keeping things from you? Two dead men can now be counted among Stuart Hill's acquaintance; the Mr. Collins you met in Portobello Market, and the true Mr. Collins whom you discovered to be previously deceased with the help of constable Murphy. What chance is this, Maisie? And what of the night you overheard Stuart and Peter? Your brother has objected venomously to your engagement. Peter left the mews over this, Maisie! Perhaps he knows a side of Stuart Hill that you do not. I can only piece together that Peter has always known Stuart's true character--but it was all in good jest whilst you were merely courting. You must listen to reason! Do not waste another thought upon Mr. Hill, nor in trying to discover new ways to justify his suspicious behaviour. I have no doubt that Mr. Hill feels greatly inclined to secure your trust once more, but do not be fooled--it comes at a price. He wishes for your blind faith in support of these obscure endeavors of his! I will be the first to grant my full blessing upon a decision that reunites you with Stuart, if you can present to me but one semblance of a respectable defense on his behalf.
There is no grand love story to be told here, Maisie. There are simple choices we make each day, some of which draw us closer to security and contentment, others which pull us towards the mire of heartache and dilemma. I do wish I were there to talk with you and to help you make sense of it all. Do write again soon.
Yours,
Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
Narrative 38 - Datura
(The narrative which forms the greater part of "Datura," as it falls within the chronology of Letters so far, is a flashback. The action of this narrative takes place in January 1903, beginning one day after events mentioned in Letter 26 - Theories and Things Overheard and finishing roughly a week prior to Letter 27 - Dissociation. The reader may therefore wish to review Letter 26 before continuing with "Datura," and possibly review Letter 27 directly after finishing, to better orient him or herself within the time frame that the action occurs.)
Mr. William Morgan
25 Victoria Street
London
9 January 1903
Dear Sir,
I am required outside of London on a matter of personal importance. I depart immediately, and may be absent for the better part of a week. I shall report my return as soon I am again in the city, and hope you will not have need of me in the interim.
With respect,
PB
Really, it was almost insulting how overqualified he was for the task. Not that this was about ego, or anything of the sort. But, if it had not been … Maisie's particular chum who was in danger, Peter Bristow would simply have wired a tip to the Préfecture de Police and been done with it. As it was, he had made immediate arrangements for a brief visit to Paris. The journey by train had gone much too slowly, but he had occupied himself by outlining his strategy in detail. Now, watching the lights of Calais draw closer from the deck of the Pride of Canterbury, he couldn't help himself thinking of Maisie, and what she would suffer if Hill went the way of Davies, of Blackstone ... of Collins. There were many more, of course, but he tried not to think about the ones whose names he did know, let alone the countless, faceless others. This was hardly the time to let himself become distracted, but the words he had exchanged with Hill yesterday afternoon had drained him of the usual drive that enabled him to do his work. He had been harsh with Maisie, but she would thank him for it if she knew his motives. He could not afford to become more attached to any of them--he had to distance himself as much as possible. It was clear to him that this was the most noble course, though Hill refused to see it. Stuart Hill, in his supreme selfishness, wanted it all, and Peter could not like him for it. Upon disembarking at Calais, Peter resolved to think no more of matters at home, and immediately began making the necessary inquiries regarding his quarry.
The sun was setting over the tops of the buildings lining the cobbled street as Peter emerged from Pigalle Station and headed east along Boulevard de Rochechouart at a brisk pace. It had not been particularly troublesome to trace Shapcott to this less-than-reputable neighbourhood. The man was a foreigner here, striking in both accent and aspect--despite the fact that he had apparently altered his usual appearance by the removal of his customary beard--and seemed to have little wish to go unremarked through the streets of Paris. Of course, Shapcott would not have expected that anyone had reason to pay attention to his movements. As it was, Peter thought wryly that the man might as well have left a trail of bread crumbs. He had tracked Shapcott from Calais with relative ease, learnt this morning that the man had made inquiries as to rooms for rent in the neighbourhood of La Chapelle, and had obtained a most disturbing affirmation of Miss Westley's abduction only this afternoon, when a tiny French woman peddling flowers on Place Louis Lépine had remarked upon the unusual circumstance of an Englishwoman stealing a bouquet of irises. As the flower seller's tale had also included the description of the young woman's accomplice, an older Englishman, and as Peter had found the pillaged flowers abandoned in a narrow alley not far from the market, there was little doubt as to the identities of the presumed thieves. Nevertheless, he had been one step behind Shapcott from the beginning, and had not closed that distance as of yet. It was essential, of course, that he head the man off. The only item of comparable importance was his personal conviction that he must not be seen. Adeline must not suspect. It would not do for him to further encourage an interest he had no intention of returning, particularly in light of the fact that he had purposely allowed Maisie to misinterpret many of his own actions as a manifestation of returned interest. That damage had been unavoidable, under the circumstances, but he would not wrong Miss Westley further if he could help it.
The area was rife with maisons d’abattage, but it was not difficult to locate the particular hotel he sought. As he executed a brief but thorough search of each side street, he could not but notice that one portion of Rue de la Charbonniere was conspicuously empty, while crowds of men pressed in on the others. He wondered at the proprietor's choice to let a room here--surely Shapcott would have had to pay at least as much as could have been earned by the unfortunate girl who would have serviced a good one hundred men that night. But Shapcott had ever been an enigma to Peter. If he wished to spend his curious wealth on a squalid room in La Chapelle, when he could likely have procured more comfortable lodgings elsewhere for the same sum, what was it to Peter? And yet he could not think it less than remarkable as he approached the battered door. Not having an exact idea of how much time may have passed since Miss Westley had been imprisoned in the room, Peter was nevertheless painfully aware that the interval may have afforded Shapcott more time alone with her than was conscionable. Removing his hat and pressing his ear to the cracked red paint covering the surface of the door, he strained to hear past the surrounding murmur of waiting clients. He could discern movement within--the dull thump and shuffle of boots on a wooden floor, the clank of glass bottles, and then the great thud and creak that seemed to announce a body settling onto a piece of wooden furniture. Had the man failed at his attempt? Was Shapcott alone, and disappointed? But, no--another sound seemed to rise out of the chaotic noise of the street to contradict any such happy theory--a muffled, piteous cry that sent an involuntary chill through Peter's body. He was too late, then. Not too late to remove Miss Westley from Shapcott's power, not too late to return her to her uncle ... but too late to prevent the damage that had surely already been inflicted upon her. He could not imagine Shapcott securing his prize only to shut her away in favor of a drink, or a kip. Not before making her his own. He had not been swift enough. The realisation of what his inadequacy had cost Adeline seemed to settle into his chest and shoulders like a great weight, and a full minute had passed away before he was able to shake himself out of the unpleasant reverie inspired by the discovery. When he had recovered himself he was mildly surprised to realise he was sagging against the door for support, and he strove to regain his former composure. It would not do to fall apart now. He needed to focus, assess the situation. All had gone quiet within the room. Replacing his hat and tipping it as far down over his eyes as it would go, Peter slipped silently inside and closed the door behind him.
Peter could not discern much in the cramped space, lit only by a pair of candles on a garishly painted wooden table. He immediately noted Miss Westley's absence, however, and the presence of a second door which must open to an inner room, from which direction he could now perceive the continued cries, softer than before although he had drawn closer to their source. The object of his hunt was sprawled across the only other piece of furniture in the room, a painted wooden bench in rather worse shape than the table. Clarence Shapcott lay before him--insensible, vulnerable. It would seem the man had celebrated his conquest with more whiskey than was compatible with consciousness. A heady wave of hatred flooded Peter's senses, and he felt as if every nerve in his body was vibrating as he stood over Shapcott, breathing hard. He wanted to annihilate the man. He wanted to pummel that newly shaven face until it was unrecognizable, to shatter every joint and snap every bone in the man's body. Why could not he have faced an alert Shapcott, who would surely have offered the resistance necessary to justify these actions? Peter endeavored to smooth the angry frown that distorted his features as he struggled for self-control, closing his eyes and drawing a slow, deep breath. He must not indulge his loathing at the expense of the mission. None of the violence he felt so eager to engage in would serve to lessen Miss Westley's suffering. He told himself this, and he almost believed it. At length he removed a dirty coil of rope from his coat pocket and tied Shapcott securely to the bench. This work done, he glanced at the inner door. He realized that the cries had ceased, and all was stillness. She had fallen asleep, then, and he would go--he would go and procure a hero for her. He turned his back on the door resolutely, but did not move to leave. Something held him in the room, and he realised after a moment that it was an effect of his training, which had made it habit to apply thoroughness to every situation and circumstance. The motivation for his mission--the girl he had assigned himself to protect--was very likely injured, possibly in need of medical care to preserve her life. It would be foolishness to leave this up to chance, however imperative it was that he not be seen or connected to this crime in any way. It would be imprudent to take his leave without first satisfying himself that she breathed and was not too grievously injured. The idea was at once both repulsive and attractive. He did not wish to behold the results of Shapcott's abominable predations. But, again, he was almost wild with desire to ensure that his actions had not been in vain. The internal struggle was brief, however, and once he had granted himself permission to proceed, he advanced towards the inner door without delay, and let himself inside. He was immediately gripped with a certain horror at the complete silence which reigned, and the utter stillness of the figure curled up on the floor at his feet, her disarrayed curls covering her face. He dropped to the floor at her side and found intense relief upon discovering the strong pulse of blood at her wrist. Even amidst his terror, however, he had not been insensible to the effect of her physical nearness. How long had it been since he had shared a common space with Adeline Westley? He had not forgotten her charms, of course, but his memory had not done her justice. He gently brushed the dark curls from her cheek and drew breath sharply at sight of the deep purple bruise that marred her jawline. Her breathing was slow and even, however, and he could not discern any greater injury upon rudimentary inspection. Gathering her slight form into his arms, he placed her gently on the disturbed bedclothes of the singular piece of furniture in the room, trying not to dwell upon the scene that must have taken place there. He realized that his hands were clenched into fists, and willed them to relax. Now he could go without worry or reservation--she could easily rest here for the brief period of time it would require for him to find a suitable rescuer. But he did not wish to leave her. Surely, it had been at least a year since last he had seen her. Yet here she was, lovely despite her recent trauma--as soft and beautiful and delicate as a night-blooming flower. He could not recall how many nights he had paced the Botanic Gardens at Oxford, and found in the exotic blooms some semblance of the pleasure he knew in her presence. He had never beheld a blossom to equal her, but had come to value the exotic fragrance as a connection to her, however frail and fleeting. The sounds of fervored movement in an adjacent room brought him back to himself, and he was immediately ashamed of the time he had wasted in selfish indulgence. He turned and exited the rooms, pausing only to note that Shapcott remained senseless before emerging onto the street.
It remained only to select the man who would convey Miss Westley to her uncle, and Peter settled upon a small fellow loitering at the opening of the street who looked to be waiting for a friend, or perhaps regretting a lack of funds which prevented him from partaking in the pleasures of the evening. Peter had been careful to dress so plainly as not to occasion notice in Paris, the most remarkable item of his apparel being his hat, and now affected a rather good approximation of an American speaking French as he greeted the little man. He offered a significant sum to the man, pointing out the door to Shapcott's room and explaining that the man need only transport the girl he would find inside to an estate in Le Marais where he would then receive several times over what he was now being given. Upon receiving the necessary details from his benefactor, the Frenchman, who it transpired was called Molyneux, was only too eager to take the roll of notes and hurry in the direction Peter indicated. Peter put great trust in greed as a motivation--he had too often seen its influence to doubt its power--but nevertheless followed Molyneux's movements at some distance to satisfy himself that the man's lust did not exceed his avarice. He had no sooner placed himself in a position so as to witness Miss Westley's delivery at her uncle's door, than she had disappeared inside, and it was time for him to be gone. He had not gained as much satisfaction from the operation as might be hoped, but he had done what he could--or must persuade himself that it was so. The route that had seemed so endless as he moved toward Paris now passed with unaccountable speed as he traversed it in the opposite direction, and as his journey to London neared its close he began to consider what repercussions he might face in the mews over his sudden and unexplained absence. It was not a pleasant line of thought, and was followed shortly by the conviction that it was past time for him to make his residence in Victoria Street a permanent one.
Mr. William Morgan
25 Victoria Street
London
9 January 1903
Dear Sir,
I am required outside of London on a matter of personal importance. I depart immediately, and may be absent for the better part of a week. I shall report my return as soon I am again in the city, and hope you will not have need of me in the interim.
With respect,
PB
* * *
Really, it was almost insulting how overqualified he was for the task. Not that this was about ego, or anything of the sort. But, if it had not been … Maisie's particular chum who was in danger, Peter Bristow would simply have wired a tip to the Préfecture de Police and been done with it. As it was, he had made immediate arrangements for a brief visit to Paris. The journey by train had gone much too slowly, but he had occupied himself by outlining his strategy in detail. Now, watching the lights of Calais draw closer from the deck of the Pride of Canterbury, he couldn't help himself thinking of Maisie, and what she would suffer if Hill went the way of Davies, of Blackstone ... of Collins. There were many more, of course, but he tried not to think about the ones whose names he did know, let alone the countless, faceless others. This was hardly the time to let himself become distracted, but the words he had exchanged with Hill yesterday afternoon had drained him of the usual drive that enabled him to do his work. He had been harsh with Maisie, but she would thank him for it if she knew his motives. He could not afford to become more attached to any of them--he had to distance himself as much as possible. It was clear to him that this was the most noble course, though Hill refused to see it. Stuart Hill, in his supreme selfishness, wanted it all, and Peter could not like him for it. Upon disembarking at Calais, Peter resolved to think no more of matters at home, and immediately began making the necessary inquiries regarding his quarry.
* * *
The sun was setting over the tops of the buildings lining the cobbled street as Peter emerged from Pigalle Station and headed east along Boulevard de Rochechouart at a brisk pace. It had not been particularly troublesome to trace Shapcott to this less-than-reputable neighbourhood. The man was a foreigner here, striking in both accent and aspect--despite the fact that he had apparently altered his usual appearance by the removal of his customary beard--and seemed to have little wish to go unremarked through the streets of Paris. Of course, Shapcott would not have expected that anyone had reason to pay attention to his movements. As it was, Peter thought wryly that the man might as well have left a trail of bread crumbs. He had tracked Shapcott from Calais with relative ease, learnt this morning that the man had made inquiries as to rooms for rent in the neighbourhood of La Chapelle, and had obtained a most disturbing affirmation of Miss Westley's abduction only this afternoon, when a tiny French woman peddling flowers on Place Louis Lépine had remarked upon the unusual circumstance of an Englishwoman stealing a bouquet of irises. As the flower seller's tale had also included the description of the young woman's accomplice, an older Englishman, and as Peter had found the pillaged flowers abandoned in a narrow alley not far from the market, there was little doubt as to the identities of the presumed thieves. Nevertheless, he had been one step behind Shapcott from the beginning, and had not closed that distance as of yet. It was essential, of course, that he head the man off. The only item of comparable importance was his personal conviction that he must not be seen. Adeline must not suspect. It would not do for him to further encourage an interest he had no intention of returning, particularly in light of the fact that he had purposely allowed Maisie to misinterpret many of his own actions as a manifestation of returned interest. That damage had been unavoidable, under the circumstances, but he would not wrong Miss Westley further if he could help it.
The area was rife with maisons d’abattage, but it was not difficult to locate the particular hotel he sought. As he executed a brief but thorough search of each side street, he could not but notice that one portion of Rue de la Charbonniere was conspicuously empty, while crowds of men pressed in on the others. He wondered at the proprietor's choice to let a room here--surely Shapcott would have had to pay at least as much as could have been earned by the unfortunate girl who would have serviced a good one hundred men that night. But Shapcott had ever been an enigma to Peter. If he wished to spend his curious wealth on a squalid room in La Chapelle, when he could likely have procured more comfortable lodgings elsewhere for the same sum, what was it to Peter? And yet he could not think it less than remarkable as he approached the battered door. Not having an exact idea of how much time may have passed since Miss Westley had been imprisoned in the room, Peter was nevertheless painfully aware that the interval may have afforded Shapcott more time alone with her than was conscionable. Removing his hat and pressing his ear to the cracked red paint covering the surface of the door, he strained to hear past the surrounding murmur of waiting clients. He could discern movement within--the dull thump and shuffle of boots on a wooden floor, the clank of glass bottles, and then the great thud and creak that seemed to announce a body settling onto a piece of wooden furniture. Had the man failed at his attempt? Was Shapcott alone, and disappointed? But, no--another sound seemed to rise out of the chaotic noise of the street to contradict any such happy theory--a muffled, piteous cry that sent an involuntary chill through Peter's body. He was too late, then. Not too late to remove Miss Westley from Shapcott's power, not too late to return her to her uncle ... but too late to prevent the damage that had surely already been inflicted upon her. He could not imagine Shapcott securing his prize only to shut her away in favor of a drink, or a kip. Not before making her his own. He had not been swift enough. The realisation of what his inadequacy had cost Adeline seemed to settle into his chest and shoulders like a great weight, and a full minute had passed away before he was able to shake himself out of the unpleasant reverie inspired by the discovery. When he had recovered himself he was mildly surprised to realise he was sagging against the door for support, and he strove to regain his former composure. It would not do to fall apart now. He needed to focus, assess the situation. All had gone quiet within the room. Replacing his hat and tipping it as far down over his eyes as it would go, Peter slipped silently inside and closed the door behind him.
Peter could not discern much in the cramped space, lit only by a pair of candles on a garishly painted wooden table. He immediately noted Miss Westley's absence, however, and the presence of a second door which must open to an inner room, from which direction he could now perceive the continued cries, softer than before although he had drawn closer to their source. The object of his hunt was sprawled across the only other piece of furniture in the room, a painted wooden bench in rather worse shape than the table. Clarence Shapcott lay before him--insensible, vulnerable. It would seem the man had celebrated his conquest with more whiskey than was compatible with consciousness. A heady wave of hatred flooded Peter's senses, and he felt as if every nerve in his body was vibrating as he stood over Shapcott, breathing hard. He wanted to annihilate the man. He wanted to pummel that newly shaven face until it was unrecognizable, to shatter every joint and snap every bone in the man's body. Why could not he have faced an alert Shapcott, who would surely have offered the resistance necessary to justify these actions? Peter endeavored to smooth the angry frown that distorted his features as he struggled for self-control, closing his eyes and drawing a slow, deep breath. He must not indulge his loathing at the expense of the mission. None of the violence he felt so eager to engage in would serve to lessen Miss Westley's suffering. He told himself this, and he almost believed it. At length he removed a dirty coil of rope from his coat pocket and tied Shapcott securely to the bench. This work done, he glanced at the inner door. He realized that the cries had ceased, and all was stillness. She had fallen asleep, then, and he would go--he would go and procure a hero for her. He turned his back on the door resolutely, but did not move to leave. Something held him in the room, and he realised after a moment that it was an effect of his training, which had made it habit to apply thoroughness to every situation and circumstance. The motivation for his mission--the girl he had assigned himself to protect--was very likely injured, possibly in need of medical care to preserve her life. It would be foolishness to leave this up to chance, however imperative it was that he not be seen or connected to this crime in any way. It would be imprudent to take his leave without first satisfying himself that she breathed and was not too grievously injured. The idea was at once both repulsive and attractive. He did not wish to behold the results of Shapcott's abominable predations. But, again, he was almost wild with desire to ensure that his actions had not been in vain. The internal struggle was brief, however, and once he had granted himself permission to proceed, he advanced towards the inner door without delay, and let himself inside. He was immediately gripped with a certain horror at the complete silence which reigned, and the utter stillness of the figure curled up on the floor at his feet, her disarrayed curls covering her face. He dropped to the floor at her side and found intense relief upon discovering the strong pulse of blood at her wrist. Even amidst his terror, however, he had not been insensible to the effect of her physical nearness. How long had it been since he had shared a common space with Adeline Westley? He had not forgotten her charms, of course, but his memory had not done her justice. He gently brushed the dark curls from her cheek and drew breath sharply at sight of the deep purple bruise that marred her jawline. Her breathing was slow and even, however, and he could not discern any greater injury upon rudimentary inspection. Gathering her slight form into his arms, he placed her gently on the disturbed bedclothes of the singular piece of furniture in the room, trying not to dwell upon the scene that must have taken place there. He realized that his hands were clenched into fists, and willed them to relax. Now he could go without worry or reservation--she could easily rest here for the brief period of time it would require for him to find a suitable rescuer. But he did not wish to leave her. Surely, it had been at least a year since last he had seen her. Yet here she was, lovely despite her recent trauma--as soft and beautiful and delicate as a night-blooming flower. He could not recall how many nights he had paced the Botanic Gardens at Oxford, and found in the exotic blooms some semblance of the pleasure he knew in her presence. He had never beheld a blossom to equal her, but had come to value the exotic fragrance as a connection to her, however frail and fleeting. The sounds of fervored movement in an adjacent room brought him back to himself, and he was immediately ashamed of the time he had wasted in selfish indulgence. He turned and exited the rooms, pausing only to note that Shapcott remained senseless before emerging onto the street.
It remained only to select the man who would convey Miss Westley to her uncle, and Peter settled upon a small fellow loitering at the opening of the street who looked to be waiting for a friend, or perhaps regretting a lack of funds which prevented him from partaking in the pleasures of the evening. Peter had been careful to dress so plainly as not to occasion notice in Paris, the most remarkable item of his apparel being his hat, and now affected a rather good approximation of an American speaking French as he greeted the little man. He offered a significant sum to the man, pointing out the door to Shapcott's room and explaining that the man need only transport the girl he would find inside to an estate in Le Marais where he would then receive several times over what he was now being given. Upon receiving the necessary details from his benefactor, the Frenchman, who it transpired was called Molyneux, was only too eager to take the roll of notes and hurry in the direction Peter indicated. Peter put great trust in greed as a motivation--he had too often seen its influence to doubt its power--but nevertheless followed Molyneux's movements at some distance to satisfy himself that the man's lust did not exceed his avarice. He had no sooner placed himself in a position so as to witness Miss Westley's delivery at her uncle's door, than she had disappeared inside, and it was time for him to be gone. He had not gained as much satisfaction from the operation as might be hoped, but he had done what he could--or must persuade himself that it was so. The route that had seemed so endless as he moved toward Paris now passed with unaccountable speed as he traversed it in the opposite direction, and as his journey to London neared its close he began to consider what repercussions he might face in the mews over his sudden and unexplained absence. It was not a pleasant line of thought, and was followed shortly by the conviction that it was past time for him to make his residence in Victoria Street a permanent one.
Letter 37 - Chez Rousseau
Miss Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London
28 April 1903
Dearest Maisie,
My days have been in such disarray since last I wrote. I have been pacing the estate with nothing to occupy my time now that Vaughn has withdrawn himself as my tutor. I have walked the gardens--and it was lovely to see the beginnings of the blossoms and the spring--but much of my time has been spent within the confines of the château, due to rain. I have read more of the letters in the hat box, but none thus far have divulged any great secret. Oh, what folly on my part to have spent my time with Vaughn so unwisely!
After weeks of lamenting my childish dismissal of Mr. Rousseau, I at last mustered the nerve to ask Madame Fifi to call on him. My questions about the abduction are ever-mounting, and more strangely, mixed with some foreign thoughts of kindness towards Vaughn ever since he revealed that it was he who saved me. Madame Fifi found me later that same afternoon and informed me that Vaughn was, in fact, coming to fetch me that very evening. Maisie, I have never been more nervous. I was shaking as the chambermaid laced my corset, and I startled when Madame Fifi entered the room. "Mademoiselle, Monsieur Rousseau has arrived. He is waiting in the parlour." I tugged at my curls, and stomped my boot to the floor, "Fifi! Can you not see I am completely unhinged? You musn't storm into a room whilst I am dressing--." I feared I may have bruised Fifi's feelings with my scolding, but I needn't have worried. I glanced at Madame Fifi only to see that she had braced herself against the bedpost and was doubled over in laughter. Once composed she replied, "Pardonnez moi, I will be sure to check your suitor for a crown next time--left to my own judgement, I had thought this one more likely to be the court fool!" Unable to interject my fury past Fifi's raucous chortling, I straightened my corset myself and, tearing my skirt from the chambermaid's hands, huffed down the hall, red-faced and--I am ashamed to admit--very much in the spirit of Mr. Rousseau himself. I had scarcely collected myself upon entering the parlour. Vaughn was standing at the window, looking out. Upon the noise of my entrance he turned, stiffened his frame, and advanced towards me. Maisie, never has my mind been so at war with itself. It seems to me there is an indiscernible line that divides my every instinct regarding this man. It is nearly indescribable, Maisie. As I attempted to greet Vaughn I found that the seemingly elementary act of willing my body to move forward was intrinsically contrary to my body's more natural reflex to turn and run from him. But once I was able to strangle the latter (quite ridiculous) impulse into submission, an entirely new feeling took over. It was one of admiration for his good will in looking for me when I went missing, and gratitude that his actions had no doubt spared me a great deal more harm than I had actually suffered. This notion of thanksgiving for Vaughn Rousseau, however, was equally fleeting. Amidst all this chaos within me, I was quite unable to deliver a simple "bonsoir." A strange marriage of sensations crept over my skin as Rousseau gathered my hands into his, along with a most unsettling set of contrasting persuasions--one whispering what a pompous and self-serving creature Vaughn has always proven himself to be, the other beguiling me to trust this man who had no doubt risked his very life to ensure the safety of my own. Rousseau raised my hands to his lips and kissed my fingers. His lips felt thin and cold. The instinct to recoil from this familiar salutation caused my hands to twitch, and though I stayed them, Vaughn raised his piercing gaze to meet mine, saying, "Is it still unnatural that it is not Steichen standing in your parlour?" The idea was so completely foreign to the barrage of emotions with which I was contending that it hadn't once occurred to me that it was, in fact, Eduard who had last come to call. I suppose I am the envy of every young lady in London, Maisie, as a chaperon has never been imposed upon me--but at that moment I wished more than anything that I were standing in the parlour of my father's home, for he would never have allowed an escort such privacy. But alas, Mr. Westley has no interest in whom I marry, other than to ensure the man would not bring embarrassment upon his household. I made a great effort to withdraw my hand slowly, and replied, "No, Vaughn. I haven't thought on Eduard for some time now ... especially since discovering that it was you who came to my aide." Vaughn smiled broadly and led me to the door.
After a short walk into the fifth arrondissement, Vaughn stopped us at rue de la Harpe and picked a key from his pocket. Turning to me, he said, "Par ici," and motioned for me to follow him up a flight of stairs. He was halfway up the stairwell whilst I lingered apprehensively behind. He looked down through the slats in the railing. His voice echoed, "Shall I say it en anglais?" Looking up in his direction, I was quick to reply so as not to upset him, "No, I just lost my footing momentarily ... " Vaughn continued upward until we reached the second floor of the building. I was most unnerved at the setting for our evening. Behind the door, marked 197, was a lavish apartment, quite large for a student. A gilded clock with a fine figurine of a hunting man and his dog sat upon the mantle above a crackling fire. The mantle was mahogany, and adorned with a grand beveled mirror and brass sconces. In every direction I discovered some form of opulence. Every thing I laid my eyes upon was impressive. A long dining table was set with fine linens of bobbin lace and monogrammed napkins. I could hardly gather my thoughts amidst all the displays of affluence. Three elaborately filigreed candelabras stood upon the server, and the china cabinet in the corner displayed some elegant trinket on every shelf. Vaughn's shadow moved across the dimly lit room as he pulled out the chair behind me. A young woman emerged from the kitchen and began to serve us. Vaughn ate as he stared in my direction. I was most uncomfortable, and diverted my eyes to my surroundings to avoid meeting his gaze. I began to question my own reasoning in accepting an invitation to dine alone with my French tutor. I cleared my throat and commented, "This is a beautiful home you have made for yourself, Vaughn. I hadn't realised the proximity of your home to my uncle's estate." He casually replied whilst buttering his bread, "Well, it is very convenient to La Sorbonne." Maisie, the man did not take his eyes from me. I looked down and began to eat, unable to make idle conversation with him. It seemed an eternity while the silence lasted. I remembered Vaughn saying he was from Brittany whilst we walked to Montparnasse, and thought it a suitable topic. "Vaughn, tell me more about your family in Brittany." He looked rather put out, and said only, "My father is a fisherman in Morlaix--foolish man. We haven't seen each other in ages. I pity my mother most for having been sentenced to a life with a man whose only ambition is to troll the English Channel for sardines." Vaughn continued to slice into his sweet potato croquette. As for me, I had rather lost my appetite. Vaughn, no doubt noticing my unrest, set down his silver and placed his napkin on his seat. He moved to stand beside me and said, "Come with me." He lead me to a chaise by the fire. I felt I could not bear much more of this, Maisie. I began to consider my options in excusing myself when he spoke, "You were unconscious when I found you." He swept the curls from my shoulder, his fingers lightly brushing my skin. He had certainly captured my attention with this announcement. I felt my heart race at the thought of being at his mercy--without even my wits about me!--and struggled for clarity of mind as I said, "There is much I do not recall about that night." "Well, the monster holding you hostage was certainly not going to harm you once I had found you." Something in my heart began to soften at the thought of this chivalry. Vaughn continued, "Mr. Westley was certainly thorough in alerting the authorities and in offering a handsome reward for your return, but I simply could not sit and wait for the police to discover your body in some godforsaken place." He rested his hand atop mine, and I could not help but take comfort in his generosity and sacrifice on my behalf. I replied, "You must accept my apology for my recent behaviour--I had never predicted it was you ... I suppose I have neglected you from the very start ... " He smirked, "Well, I am sure it is not difficult to conclude how preposterous your whimsical ideas of Eduard and Peter were." I flinched away from him as he said the name. "What do you know of Peter?" I leapt up from his side and began to back away from him. Vaughn's complexion blanched white, "I--I simply mean that your friend, Peter, is too far removed from your life here in Paris to possibly care for you the way that I do." I stared at him for a moment before asking, "Have I mentioned Peter?" Vaughn was smiling again, and in a calming tone replied, "Yes, Adeline ... of course." He clasped my hands in his. "Do you honestly not recall, Adeline? Shall I call on Doctor Laroche? I am confident I could have him here within the hour." The wild thumping of my heart slowed, and I spent a moment regaining my composure. "No--no, that will not be necessary. I would be grieved at the thought of worrying my uncle any further with the matter." With a gentle hand, Vaughn turned my face to his and said, "This is what is real, Adeline. On me, you can rely." A strange certainty began to creep its way toward my heart. It seemed to me that truer words had never been spoken. The world at that moment might be full to the brim with men of good intention, but Vaughn was the only man who cared enough for me to act. Vaughn's sincere offer of protection seemed to satisfy a need I had not known to be so utterly wanting. At the close of the evening, after Vaughn had escorted me home, I turned to him and said, "Will you find some time for me again?" Vaughn kissed my cheek and whispered in my ear, "How could I not?" I retired to bed that evening with a feeling of security that I had not felt for some time, Maisie--I daresay since before I left London. I think it is high time for me to be sensible and practical. I think of the time we have wasted on both Peter and Stuart ... and to what end?
I am eager to hear your latest news.
Yours,
Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
14 Bathurst Mews
London
28 April 1903
Dearest Maisie,
My days have been in such disarray since last I wrote. I have been pacing the estate with nothing to occupy my time now that Vaughn has withdrawn himself as my tutor. I have walked the gardens--and it was lovely to see the beginnings of the blossoms and the spring--but much of my time has been spent within the confines of the château, due to rain. I have read more of the letters in the hat box, but none thus far have divulged any great secret. Oh, what folly on my part to have spent my time with Vaughn so unwisely!
After weeks of lamenting my childish dismissal of Mr. Rousseau, I at last mustered the nerve to ask Madame Fifi to call on him. My questions about the abduction are ever-mounting, and more strangely, mixed with some foreign thoughts of kindness towards Vaughn ever since he revealed that it was he who saved me. Madame Fifi found me later that same afternoon and informed me that Vaughn was, in fact, coming to fetch me that very evening. Maisie, I have never been more nervous. I was shaking as the chambermaid laced my corset, and I startled when Madame Fifi entered the room. "Mademoiselle, Monsieur Rousseau has arrived. He is waiting in the parlour." I tugged at my curls, and stomped my boot to the floor, "Fifi! Can you not see I am completely unhinged? You musn't storm into a room whilst I am dressing--." I feared I may have bruised Fifi's feelings with my scolding, but I needn't have worried. I glanced at Madame Fifi only to see that she had braced herself against the bedpost and was doubled over in laughter. Once composed she replied, "Pardonnez moi, I will be sure to check your suitor for a crown next time--left to my own judgement, I had thought this one more likely to be the court fool!" Unable to interject my fury past Fifi's raucous chortling, I straightened my corset myself and, tearing my skirt from the chambermaid's hands, huffed down the hall, red-faced and--I am ashamed to admit--very much in the spirit of Mr. Rousseau himself. I had scarcely collected myself upon entering the parlour. Vaughn was standing at the window, looking out. Upon the noise of my entrance he turned, stiffened his frame, and advanced towards me. Maisie, never has my mind been so at war with itself. It seems to me there is an indiscernible line that divides my every instinct regarding this man. It is nearly indescribable, Maisie. As I attempted to greet Vaughn I found that the seemingly elementary act of willing my body to move forward was intrinsically contrary to my body's more natural reflex to turn and run from him. But once I was able to strangle the latter (quite ridiculous) impulse into submission, an entirely new feeling took over. It was one of admiration for his good will in looking for me when I went missing, and gratitude that his actions had no doubt spared me a great deal more harm than I had actually suffered. This notion of thanksgiving for Vaughn Rousseau, however, was equally fleeting. Amidst all this chaos within me, I was quite unable to deliver a simple "bonsoir." A strange marriage of sensations crept over my skin as Rousseau gathered my hands into his, along with a most unsettling set of contrasting persuasions--one whispering what a pompous and self-serving creature Vaughn has always proven himself to be, the other beguiling me to trust this man who had no doubt risked his very life to ensure the safety of my own. Rousseau raised my hands to his lips and kissed my fingers. His lips felt thin and cold. The instinct to recoil from this familiar salutation caused my hands to twitch, and though I stayed them, Vaughn raised his piercing gaze to meet mine, saying, "Is it still unnatural that it is not Steichen standing in your parlour?" The idea was so completely foreign to the barrage of emotions with which I was contending that it hadn't once occurred to me that it was, in fact, Eduard who had last come to call. I suppose I am the envy of every young lady in London, Maisie, as a chaperon has never been imposed upon me--but at that moment I wished more than anything that I were standing in the parlour of my father's home, for he would never have allowed an escort such privacy. But alas, Mr. Westley has no interest in whom I marry, other than to ensure the man would not bring embarrassment upon his household. I made a great effort to withdraw my hand slowly, and replied, "No, Vaughn. I haven't thought on Eduard for some time now ... especially since discovering that it was you who came to my aide." Vaughn smiled broadly and led me to the door.
After a short walk into the fifth arrondissement, Vaughn stopped us at rue de la Harpe and picked a key from his pocket. Turning to me, he said, "Par ici," and motioned for me to follow him up a flight of stairs. He was halfway up the stairwell whilst I lingered apprehensively behind. He looked down through the slats in the railing. His voice echoed, "Shall I say it en anglais?" Looking up in his direction, I was quick to reply so as not to upset him, "No, I just lost my footing momentarily ... " Vaughn continued upward until we reached the second floor of the building. I was most unnerved at the setting for our evening. Behind the door, marked 197, was a lavish apartment, quite large for a student. A gilded clock with a fine figurine of a hunting man and his dog sat upon the mantle above a crackling fire. The mantle was mahogany, and adorned with a grand beveled mirror and brass sconces. In every direction I discovered some form of opulence. Every thing I laid my eyes upon was impressive. A long dining table was set with fine linens of bobbin lace and monogrammed napkins. I could hardly gather my thoughts amidst all the displays of affluence. Three elaborately filigreed candelabras stood upon the server, and the china cabinet in the corner displayed some elegant trinket on every shelf. Vaughn's shadow moved across the dimly lit room as he pulled out the chair behind me. A young woman emerged from the kitchen and began to serve us. Vaughn ate as he stared in my direction. I was most uncomfortable, and diverted my eyes to my surroundings to avoid meeting his gaze. I began to question my own reasoning in accepting an invitation to dine alone with my French tutor. I cleared my throat and commented, "This is a beautiful home you have made for yourself, Vaughn. I hadn't realised the proximity of your home to my uncle's estate." He casually replied whilst buttering his bread, "Well, it is very convenient to La Sorbonne." Maisie, the man did not take his eyes from me. I looked down and began to eat, unable to make idle conversation with him. It seemed an eternity while the silence lasted. I remembered Vaughn saying he was from Brittany whilst we walked to Montparnasse, and thought it a suitable topic. "Vaughn, tell me more about your family in Brittany." He looked rather put out, and said only, "My father is a fisherman in Morlaix--foolish man. We haven't seen each other in ages. I pity my mother most for having been sentenced to a life with a man whose only ambition is to troll the English Channel for sardines." Vaughn continued to slice into his sweet potato croquette. As for me, I had rather lost my appetite. Vaughn, no doubt noticing my unrest, set down his silver and placed his napkin on his seat. He moved to stand beside me and said, "Come with me." He lead me to a chaise by the fire. I felt I could not bear much more of this, Maisie. I began to consider my options in excusing myself when he spoke, "You were unconscious when I found you." He swept the curls from my shoulder, his fingers lightly brushing my skin. He had certainly captured my attention with this announcement. I felt my heart race at the thought of being at his mercy--without even my wits about me!--and struggled for clarity of mind as I said, "There is much I do not recall about that night." "Well, the monster holding you hostage was certainly not going to harm you once I had found you." Something in my heart began to soften at the thought of this chivalry. Vaughn continued, "Mr. Westley was certainly thorough in alerting the authorities and in offering a handsome reward for your return, but I simply could not sit and wait for the police to discover your body in some godforsaken place." He rested his hand atop mine, and I could not help but take comfort in his generosity and sacrifice on my behalf. I replied, "You must accept my apology for my recent behaviour--I had never predicted it was you ... I suppose I have neglected you from the very start ... " He smirked, "Well, I am sure it is not difficult to conclude how preposterous your whimsical ideas of Eduard and Peter were." I flinched away from him as he said the name. "What do you know of Peter?" I leapt up from his side and began to back away from him. Vaughn's complexion blanched white, "I--I simply mean that your friend, Peter, is too far removed from your life here in Paris to possibly care for you the way that I do." I stared at him for a moment before asking, "Have I mentioned Peter?" Vaughn was smiling again, and in a calming tone replied, "Yes, Adeline ... of course." He clasped my hands in his. "Do you honestly not recall, Adeline? Shall I call on Doctor Laroche? I am confident I could have him here within the hour." The wild thumping of my heart slowed, and I spent a moment regaining my composure. "No--no, that will not be necessary. I would be grieved at the thought of worrying my uncle any further with the matter." With a gentle hand, Vaughn turned my face to his and said, "This is what is real, Adeline. On me, you can rely." A strange certainty began to creep its way toward my heart. It seemed to me that truer words had never been spoken. The world at that moment might be full to the brim with men of good intention, but Vaughn was the only man who cared enough for me to act. Vaughn's sincere offer of protection seemed to satisfy a need I had not known to be so utterly wanting. At the close of the evening, after Vaughn had escorted me home, I turned to him and said, "Will you find some time for me again?" Vaughn kissed my cheek and whispered in my ear, "How could I not?" I retired to bed that evening with a feeling of security that I had not felt for some time, Maisie--I daresay since before I left London. I think it is high time for me to be sensible and practical. I think of the time we have wasted on both Peter and Stuart ... and to what end?
I am eager to hear your latest news.
Yours,
Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
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