Letters

Letter 49 - The Hook

2010-07-29T17:52:00.009+01:00

Miss Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris

3 August 1903

My dearest Addie,

I have behaved like a fool, Addie, and I only hope you do not hate me for it. I did not think before I wrote, and it surely has cost you. Of course, it never once occurred to me that there was any question of your parentage. I thought it rather scandalous, of course, that your mother should have married both of them in quick succession, but I was far more intrigued by the idea of your French heritage than I was concerned about your mother's fickle behaviour. It is clear to me, now, however--and I cannot bear to see you compare yourself to her! I will allow that parallels may be drawn between your marriage to Mr. Rousseau and your mother's marriage to Mr. Westley. The comparison ends there, however, and it was your mother's decision to become involved with her husband's brother that was damning. You have not made any such choice, nor will you. I thus beg you to refrain from berating yourself for a sin you are not capable of committing! I also beg forgiveness. I have caused you suffering at a time when you should be rejoicing, and I am sorry beyond words. I offer you congratulation on your engagement, dearest! There was a time when I would perhaps have been less glad, when I would have encouraged you to refuse Mr. Rousseau and wait for your devastatingly handsome soul mate to materialise. I am wiser now. I must nevertheless submit that Mr. Rousseau is hardly the one man in the world who would have you. A man need only lay eyes upon you to be affected by the graceful beauty of your face and figure, and an hour in your company would serve to demonstrate to him your sweet nature. Nay, less than an hour! You must marry as you see fit, of course, but you ought to do it with a full knowledge of the truth of your own attractions. In any case, however, I respect your choice--and will do my best to love your Vaughn as a brother.

As for me, I have been invited to County West Meath, to celebrate the harvest holidays with the Murphys! I shall spend September and October at Deireadh an Turais, the Murphy family farm. It is the very thing I wished for, Addie, and what I think will best cure me of my doubts concerning a permanent attachment to James. It is not him, of course, that I doubt--but my heart is irritatingly stubborn in reserving some affection for one who has proven himself entirely unworthy of it. James will accompany me by train, of course, to Mullingar, and then on to a smaller village where we will be met with a carriage to convey us the remainder of the way, for it is quite in the country, lovely and green and remote--as James describes it. A perfectly serene, romantic location! James has been granted leave from the police force for the first fortnight, so that we may be always together. He assures me that I will become great friends with his younger sister, and will not want for company even in his absence, but I know I shall always want for your company, Addie. If only you could join me this autumn, my happiness would be complete! I will finish your letter tomorrow, dearest, for James is not on duty tonight, and he has just arrived for our evening walk.

It is odd, Addie, how at times a very simple action can signify a singularly complex reaction in a human heart. Allow me to explain. As James and I have been riding together nearly every morning for some weeks, it has become a matter of routine for us. He was unable to join me this morning, however, so I went out alone. Upon returning to the stable I removed my bowler and found a shiny brass hook in the precise spot where I am usually constrained to hang my hat over the edge of the half wall. Indeed, I was so accustomed to wishing to find a peg in that spot that I had hung my hat on the hook before my consciousness fully noted the novelty of its existence. I snatched the bowler off again and stared at the hook, bewildered. Dad wandered in from the arena to find me in this puzzled state, and laughed heartily at my expression. "You did this," I accused, but he shook his head and laughed again, saying, "It was installed early this morning, by a fine young working man who asked my permission but refused my offer of compensation. He said he had already been paid handsomely, having been commissioned by a certain young man to place it in exactly the spot where you now see it." I could not suppress the smile that came to my lips, Addie, nor the name that came to my mind. I did not realize, however, that I had spoken the name aloud until Dad said, "Indeed. And since you are using his Christian name, I begin to wonder how soon I might call him 'son'?" He was teasing me, of course, but I could not hide from myself the fact that the idea was far from abhorrent to me. I should not like to think of James as merely a salve to soothe the wounds inflicted as a result of my unhappy separation from Mr. Hill, and yet he has rather wonderfully served that purpose. He is so very honest, constant, solicitous, and adoring! We have never had a quarrel, nor have I ever had reason to doubt or censure him. He might very well be the perfect man, Addie, which would in turn make him the perfect husband. All this, however, had seemed somehow still to be wanting--until I saw the hook. It was only a bit of burnished metal, Addie, but what it signified! That he should truly know me so well, and think of me so minutely, as to provide this little thing that I was in want of ... it is beyond rational explanation, and yet I cannot help feeling that he has passed some sort of test which up to now he had managed to avoid altogether. I had never mentioned my frustration at having nowhere to hang my hat, Addie--he could only have observed my actions, and guessed correctly. The typical damsel may fall into raptures upon being presented with a lovely piece of jewelry, but it has taken a bit of hardware to stagger me. You may think me silly, Addie, but I feel that I have received a sign. I have suspected for some little time that James would propose, and, truth be told, I was not altogether comfortable with the prospect. I did not know if I truly wished to marry him, yet I could not bear the thought of never seeing him more. The memory of my engagement to Mr. Hill, and the accompanying pain of its dissolution, still plays vividly in my consciousness, and I could not wholly wish to be exposed to the possibility of such a catastrophe again. In short--if my heart were not given it could not be rejected, and so far I had avoided the terrifying technicality of any such official declaration on the part of either James or myself. I am no longer afraid, Addie. If James has recognized and provided for such a small and unnamed want--what could he not do for me? And yet, that does not justly describe it, either, for it is not having my little wants fulfilled that concerns me ... I suppose it is simply that, although James has ever seemed to anticipate and comply with my preferences, I had never felt, as I do at this moment, precisely "gone on" him. I thought perhaps I would never feel that way about any other man, after being used so, but I seem to have been happily mistaken. It is a lovely feeling, Addie. It is as if the last piece of the puzzle has finally clicked into place, and the result is quite good enough to go forward with. Should James ask, I shall no longer be hesitant to answer.

Furthermore, you needn't think that I will be absent on your wedding day. Even now I am plotting the most effective way to exercise my powers of persuasion upon Dad. He is a dear man, and has quite a weakness for his only daughter. I am sure he will allow me to go with such a momentous occasion in the offing! You must think on our reunion, and if the idea does not cheer you as much as it does me, then I shall consider you a hopeless case. Please write soon, and say you forgive my thoughtlessness.

Sincerely,

Maitland Bristow

14 Bathurst Mews
London

Letter 48 - The Apple

2010-07-28T05:48:00.003+01:00

Miss Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London

25 July 1903

Dear Maisie,

I read your letter twice over, not believing the lines and curves penned upon the paper. The pages drifted out from my hand on to the floor. I took myself directly to the spare room and removed the hatbox full of letters from the closet shelf. It was horrible, Maisie--there were several more letters to my mother, signed "Walter"--all of them dated June or July of 1883, which proves immoral and altering for each one of us. I do not know how she responded, of course, but she must have encouraged his advances, else he could not possibly have written such indecent things. I sank into a deluge of misconstrued memories--in particular my father's wild and violent appeals to my mother to "release him from this hellish unknowing," which were met with her artful and perpetual silence. Perhaps it was not clear to you, Maisie, but I must certainly have already been conceived during the greater part of that amorous correspondence, all of which took place while my mother was newly wedded to her lover's brother. For nineteen years I have been under the illusion that my father and mother's--or rather, Walter and Elyse's--anniversary was 12 June 1883. This filthy secret is the reason for all of it--these years of acrimony between my father and uncle--whomever it is that holds those true titles. I am the invention of my mother's dark selfishness; her pawn to maneuver. I could scarcely stand it, Maisie. I made my way to the study, rushing past Madame Fifi and ignoring her request to wait in the parlour for Mr. Westley. I entered the room and placed myself within the small girl's presence, touching her painted, framed face. The brush strokes had captured my loneliness, even then.

As for my mother's family name, I had always known it to be Bell. It is written in her composition books, and on some old school papers which I have come across at home. It can only be some form of abbreviation, as I see it now. But until today I never had reason to make any connexion between my mother and the Bellefeuilles of Dorset. I can tell you, Maisie, it is with my whole heart that I desire to leave Mr. Westley's estate and return to you in London. However, I had already requested a private interview with my uncle, and could in nowise abandon it. I kept company with the portrait for a bit, then attempted to collect myself and began to move slowly in the direction of the parlour. The room itself offered me some comfort. I ran my hand along the familiar, smooth, straw-coloured walls as I entered, pausing at the mantle of the fireplace to take in the scent of beeswax and lemon oil. A pale girl looked back at me out of the large gilded mirror that hangs above the burnished wood, and behind her dark head the crystal chandelier gleamed down from the gracefully corniced ceiling. I found a seat on the fruitwood divan, arranging my skirts carefully, and cast about for some distraction with which to occupy myself. I found nothing to keep my thoughts from the revelation in your letter. Filled with the most troublesome of emotions, I could only sit and restlessly spin the ring around my finger. It radiates beauty, Maisie. The oval sapphire rests upon a thin band of gold, guarded by a halo of diamonds. It is a pity it sits upon such a reluctant hand. Vaughn thought it absurd on my part to involve Mr. Westley in the decision--so much so, in fact, that he refused to be present. I heard the door close, and looked up to see my uncle making his way to his wing-backed chair. His grey-black hair is thick like my father's, and I could not help but make the connexion between them. There are, however, differences enough. My father has not faired nearly so well with age; his handsome features have become distended from the years of liquor--the once pleasing lines of his face muddled by an unbecoming beard. Mr. Westley's face, by stark contrast, is long and slender--gaunt, even--and meticulously clean-shaven. His powerful presence filled the room, as did his silence. He apparently felt no inclination to greet me, nor to acknowledge me in the slightest. Perhaps I need not remind you that he is an impressive man, Maisie. One might conclude that a man with a bit of a limp would appear shrunken, frail and wasted. I can attest to precisely the opposite effect. On numerous occasions I have come upon my uncle unexpectedly--in the hallways or on the grounds--and each time the solidity of his square frame weaving towards me conjured fading gunshots and the figures of men of lesser physicality and wit falling before him. I have never been at ease in his presence. I looked about restively, unsure of how to begin. Mr. Westley struck a wooden match against the tiny brass matchbox on the table, lighting his familiar pipe. I recall asking Madame Fifi about the pipe shortly after my arrival in Paris (as he is so seldom without it). She recounted how Mr. Westley obtained it during a campaign on behalf of the French whilst in Turkey, during the Crimean War many years ago. It is a beautiful, amber-coloured meerschaum pipe, with the clawed foot of an eagle gripping the bowl. Exhaling the sweet-smelling smoke, his heavy eyelids lifted, and at last he looked in my direction. In his thick, low voice he asked, "When did he make the proposal?" Caught unawares by the transparency of my circumstance, I looked away and replied, "I accepted one week ago, today." He made no immediate response, but sat pensively for some little time, letting the tobacco burn away in the pipe. Then, "I pray you have not found yourself constrained to seek my approval in the matter."

"I am not here out of any supposed obligation. You have shown me great charity in permitting me to stay with you, and I wish to thank you for it."

"Child, you should be in London with your mother and father."

I was briefly tempted to question him as to his certainty that my father was in London, but I'm sure you know me well enough to realise that I did not. Indeed, I had enough to wonder at as it was. It is still unclear to me whether his statement was merely his advice, or an order to be carried out. He had certainly seemed confident in his use of the term father, which alone was enough to unsettle me greatly. And yet I had little time to dwell on any of it when once I had considered that his comment might simply be an expression of his wish for me to leave his estate. I could not think that he would grudge me the few months of occupancy left before my wedding. Could he be suggesting that Vaughn and I return to London after our marriage? Certainly he had no sudden, strong conviction that I should leave Paris now? It seemed incredible that he might disapprove of the very man he had himself introduced to me, but I could not be certain, so I pressed him further, "Mr. Rousseau is a fine gentleman, I'm sure you will agree. He has spared me a great deal of sorrow and unhappiness." Mr. Westley rose from his seat and gazed down at me, ever exerting his prodigious nature. After what seemed to be a careful selection of words, he responded, "In my experience, it is never wise for a young woman to marry one who does not have her heart." He had turned to go, but I was at once upset by this, and perhaps without much thought retorted, "I assure you, Uncle, I know the correct and sensible course, and in marrying Vaughn, I am certain I will not be hurt nor abused by him in any way!" Mr. Westley had made his way nearly out of the parlour by this point, and I began to doubt that he was listening to my defence at all. Pausing in the doorway, however, he turned back towards me, "Adeline, I have no doubt you shall, indeed, remain well-cared for . . . it is Mr. Rousseau for whom I fear." So saying, he left the room, shutting the door behind him, and my chest swelled with pain as the significance of his words flooded my heart. I could only think on Vaughn. Am I really so cruel, Maisie? For my uncle to draw such a parallel between me and my mother--to see how very near the apple has fallen from the tree--I could not bear the idea of becoming such a creature; and I shan't. My mother had choices, and she chose her course with confidence and without regard for any thing but her own pleasure . . . yet, who else will have me, I ask? What other prospect lurches about the streets of Paris or London in pursuit of a grand wreck such as I? An avenue has been laid before me, forked in two. It is as clear to me as if I have been privy to some Elysian revelation: As I stand, I feel the warmth and sunshine streaming down from behind me. To my left, I see a path stricken with the cold London fog, snaking its way back to Paddington to deliver me to my father and into the arms of his chosen bridegroom. To the right, I see the plain and well-paved road to Vaughn. Yes, I have chosen Vaughn. I do not pretend to deny there is an unhappiness that holds my very hand as the day of our marriage advances, but the sands in the hourglass do not pause for the fantastic wishes of my romantic heart to somehow be realised. I will marry Vaughn. I know it would be foolishness on my part not to acknowledge that I have greatly underestimated the sadness it has caused me to have my mother absent in planning such an affair, and despite her failings, I recognize that my sheer loneliness and longing for her has made the approach of this event all the more bittersweet. It would seem I can only hope that Vaughn can sufficiently fill the place in my heart that was not at first carved out for him, and that in time, all things may mend. We will go before la mairie on 9 November. Vaughn has allowed me time to have a proper gown made, else it might have been sooner. He is anxious to return to his work with Professeur Barrère, and sees little value in the marriage being an indulgent event, as neither of our kin will be in attendance. I imagine my day will be a far cry from the loveliness that would have been your union with Stuart Hill--and I apologise to mention him at all in light of his recent transgressions . . . I am sure the thought of him had already fled your mind, and I have done you no service in unwittingly reminding you of him. Forgive me.

Yours,

Adeline Westley

23 rue Saint Paul
Paris

Go on to the next letter, Letter 49 - The Hook

Letter 47 - Performance

2010-05-28T17:26:00.005+01:00

Miss Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris

14 July 1903

My dearest Addie,

I hardly know how to express my feelings, Addie, but I must write to you again today, for I have extraordinary news--which is rather less extraordinary than you might at first suppose.

James and I were engaged to dine with some particular friends of his, Mr. and Mrs. Breckenridge, along with Mr. Breckenridge's sister and her fiance. Upon arrival I was introduced to all three Breckenridges, but the one who would make us an even party had yet to arrive. We passed a quarter of an hour pleasantly enough, and when the call for dinner came we were still only five. Upon entering the dining room I saw just five places set, and James seemed to notice the discrepancy as well. Miss Breckenridge, a tall girl of extraordinary beauty and exuberant expression, seemed to notice our puzzlement. "Ah, you are wondering where my gallant young fellow is, are you? Well, he is not coming. It is a recent development, so you will forgive my brother for not informing you of my disappointment." She said all this with such a smile that I assumed he was but detained for the evening, but her brother looked rather uncomfortable at her speech, and she chided him, "You needn't be so delicate, William--I am quite glad to see the back of him. And now you are shocked! Never mind, you need not be shocked on my account." Mrs. Breckenridge caught her sister-in-law's eye and smiled a little. I admit I was more puzzled than ever, and also intrigued, but I did not like to pursue a subject that was apparently distressing to the master of the house. It fell out that I needn't have pressed, for Miss Breckenridge was only too happy to go on as we were seated and the first course brought out. "Before poor Mr. Murphy and Miss Bristow puzzle themselves to death, I had better excuse the absence of my former fiance. I assure you, it was I who sent him away, and therefore you needn't pity me." I really could not understand her, Addie, having recently suffered a very similar disappointment, but this only served to intrigue me all the more. Miss Breckenridge glanced at her brother and smiled indulgently, "Dear William, do not be ashamed of me!" And William, looking more upset than ever, replied, "I am not ashamed of you, Maggie--not in the least. But I cannot let his behaviour pass so lightly as you seem to do. I could wish for a return of dueling when I think of him." At this his sister only laughed, raised her brow, and shook her head as if to playfully suggest that she could not but humour such old-fashioned notions in her beloved brother. Turning to James and myself, she at last was able to satisfy my curiosity. "In short, my charming fiance was forever excusing himself from my presence for some business or other, and at length I discovered that I was not the only lady he admired," she said archly. I was rather more inclined to emulate her brother's feelings, and James seemed to be of an accord. "Let us subscribe to a more modern sensibility, ladies and gentlemen," she said with feigned solemnity, "or we shall be forced to spend the remainder of this fine evening in mortified silence. Since I am the one who has been offended, let me remain the only one." Accordingly, she tucked into her turtle soup and engaged Mrs. Breckenridge in conversation about the hat she had purchased the day before. Addie, I was taken by surprise, but it afforded me some thought on my own situation. I began to feel that I should follow Miss Breckenridge's example of modernity, and put Stuart behind me with as much lightness and good humour as I could command. James had soon initiated conversation with Mr. Breckenridge, and I joined in where I could, reserving one ear for the ladies' continuing dialogue. I am an admirer of fashion, Addie, as you know, but I am hardly in any position to speak knowledgeably of the latest trends. I had very nearly given up all hope of contributing anything of value to the female discussion when the two ladies dropped the topic of style altogether, and renewed the theme which had so captivated our little party at the start of the meal. I could not help but listen more attentively when I heard Mrs. Breckenridge say to her sister-in-law, "You never told me what he said to excuse himself." Miss Breckenridge seemed, of all things, eager to speak on the subject! "Oh, yes, Charlotte--it is quite worth telling, too. He denied it without qualification, and claimed his father's ill health as the chief reason for his frequent absences. Imagine his extreme discomposure when I informed him I had it all from the downstairs maid, and knew every detail of what he had been up to! Had I not been so amused I might actually have pitied him." Mrs. Breckenridge seemed to enjoy hearing the tale as much as her sister-in-law enjoyed telling it, and urged her for more detail. "Do not worry, there is more to amuse you--upon realising I was fully aware of his deception he took another tack altogether, and claimed some righteous and mysterious agenda in courting this other woman! He became quite serious, took my hand with an air of resigned melancholy, and suggested with his next words that if I only knew the purity of his intentions I should forgive him straightaway, but that he could not justify himself, for he was not at liberty to do so. Upon my word, he should have pursued a career on the stage."
"I suppose he should have liked you to believe his other lady a poor invalid, or a slighted woman to whom, by his noble actions, he was attempting to provide some little comfort before she left this world altogether! What a performance it must have been!"
"It was, indeed, Charlotte, but I knew better. Sally said his other lady was with them at Christmas (out of town, indeed!), and mentioned her as a striking beauty in excellent health, quite as dark as I am fair. Which leaves me to conclude that he is a man who requires variety at the expense of fidelity. I only thank heaven I did not marry him!--if indeed he ever intended to go through with any such ceremony."
"And did you tell him as much?" asked Mrs. Breckenridge. "Oh, yes--I did not spare him, I can assure you. 'Mr. Hill,' I said, 'This is not to be borne. I will not be your play thing any longer, and if I but knew the identity of your black-haired beauty, I would illuminate her without delay.' At which point he had the humility to put all pretense aside, inform me that it was over between he and his other lady, and positively beg me to remain with him. He is handsome and well-spoken, as you know, Charlotte, and in a moment of weakness I may have become subject to his charms, but I was prodigiously angry, and quite able to refuse him. I must laugh, and remember that there are honest men in the world quite as wealthy and handsome as he, and rather less jealous and obsessive. You will be interested to know that I am quite convinced that my former fiance has set some of his friends to follow me about and report to him my interactions with other gentlemen--I have seen them at it!"

You may imagine, Addie, my feelings upon hearing her wayward suitor named at last. So here was Stuart's great mystery--or one of them, at any rate. To hear that Sir John's downstairs maid had called me a beauty hardly assuaged my sense of inferiority upon comparing myself to Miss Breckenridge. Not only had I been one of two, but I was decidedly the inferior. It was horrible--no other word for it! Miss Breckenridge must have seen something of my feelings in my expression, and interpreted incorrectly, for she apologised for offending me with her frankness, and bade me put it from my mind, as she certainly had. "It is scandalous, I'll grant you, but such things occur more often than not in these modern times. I am already courted by another gentleman, and do not regret the change of scenery, as it were." James was regarding me with some concern, and his excellent discernment was in evidence again as he made our excuses shortly after the anchovies were served. All in all, Addie, I felt that I was coping with the news admirably. Had I learnt of it only a month earlier, I should certainly have been in hysterics. As it was, I had James at my side, and was only moderately outraged. It is amazing, Addie, what time will do--time and agreeable company. I could not but feel the sting of discovering that I was that much more the fool, but it did not grieve me as it might have, all things considered. I am determined to take a leaf from Miss Breckenridge's book, and move forward without undue dramatics. James, who could not have heard or understood as much of the ladies' conversation as I had, merely offered me his arm and the comfort of his presence, and these two things were all I desired at that moment to bear me onward.

How brave I am while the day lasts, Addie! I am afraid I cannot acquit myself half so well at night, when I am alone in my little room, assaulted by moonlight. My sentiments at ten o'clock last night, as I finished your letter and prepared for sleep, were quite different from those which I could honestly claim at half past three this morning. There is little comfort in such an admission, yet I must not pretend to you, dearest friend. I am weak, hopeless--a wretched, wretched girl! I awoke at the aforementioned hour from a nightmare so vivid it took me a good quarter of an hour to realise I was awake, and that it had been only a dream. I had thought sure I was in Hyde Park, riding my own Jinn, when Stuart's bay gelding appeared--breathless and riderless, its fine chest and shoulders covered in a bloody froth. I caught up the gelding's reins along with my own and went all round the park looking for the lost rider, but to no avail. I felt instinctively that it was of the utmost importance that I find him, Addie, but he was not there! The tears that overcame me in my dream were real, and I awoke sobbing with abandon, my pillow quite wet. The realisation that I had been dreaming was not the comfort one might expect, as all the hurt of Stuart's betrayal came crashing down upon my head and reduced me to ruin. I had thought I was removed enough to have suffered little at the discovery--my milder feelings of the previous evening had convinced me of it--but now I see that I was deceiving myself. That wound has not yet healed. The very worst of it, Addie, is that I did not weep for the injury done to my vanity or my dignity. I wept for the loss of the man--and there is no excuse for it. Pity me, if you will, but do not justify it--I know too well how pathetic my behaviour has been. But I could not help it, Addie, and that is what troubles me most. When will I be free of him?

Sincerely,

Maitland Bristow

14 Bathurst Mews
London

Go on to the next letter, Letter 48 - The Apple

Letter 46 - Rabbit

2010-04-12T22:22:00.006+01:00

Miss Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris

14 July 1903

My dearest Addie,

I am so sorry for my neglect! I have scolded myself soundly, but it is nothing close to what I deserve for deserting you at such a time! Please forgive me, dearest. How terrifying it must have been to have your first proposal of marriage come from a deranged fellow holding you captive! I do not understand him in the least, nor should I wish to; but I am grateful for whatever imbalance motivated him to spare you the greater horror. I shudder to think of what might have occurred had Mr. Rousseau not come to your aide as quickly as he did. You once wrote that it would have made little difference to whom you were married, but I am sure you have realized how grievously wrong you were in that opinion. I begin to see your "Vaughn" in a new light. As you have granted him your faith, so shall I grant you mine. If you love him, Addie, I wish you every happiness! As for Peter, you are right to give him up. He has abandoned us all, and is rarely to be seen in the Mews. Dad, on the one occasion I was weak enough to complain of my brother's hurtful absence and lack of correspondence, assured me that he is of the age when a young man must strike out on his own, and so feels the fetters of family obligations keenly. Dad is certain Peter will come round once he has had his bitter taste of freedom. I am not so sure. My dear brother grows colder by the hour, or so I must judge according to the time I saw him last, since he does not appear again to banish the impression from my mind. It was a fortnight ago, I think, when James and I were walking along Fleet Street on some little errand, that we encountered Peter emerging from the Daily Telegraph office. How delightful, I thought, that in all of London we should happen to meet my beloved Peter! I expressed something of my delight, but I was not received in kind. For himself, Peter appeared greatly preoccupied, and failed to notice our presence even after I had spoken to him! I laid a glove on his arm and he turned so quickly and with such a fierce look in his eyes that I was quite afraid of him, Addie! His countenance softened when his eyes lighted upon me, but the effect of this change was only to convert his expression from murderous to indifferent. "Well, Peter, who were you expecting to see? The Whitechapel Murderer?" I tried to make light of it, Addie, but, search as I might, I could find no hint of brotherly feeling in his face, and my heart sank very low. Peter ignored my flippant question and glanced shrewdly at James, than back at me. "What are you doing here, Maisie?" was all he had to say. I introduced Peter and James to one another, as they had not yet met, and we exchanged a few strained pleasantries before going our separate ways. I could not but notice that James had been a shade less friendly than usual during these interactions, and as Peter disappeared from view James turned to me and said, "Your brother is a dangerous man." The idea was absurd, of course, Addie, and I laughed accordingly and told James he was far too cautious and that, as a police constable, it was his duty to see a potential criminal wherever he looked. "Perhaps you are right," James conceded, after which he relaxed visibly. But his words have haunted me since, Addie. How came my stubborn, studious, warm-hearted brother to this pass? How could he regard me with so little affection, and leave me so quickly with so little regret? I can scarce imagine a worse impression for him to have given James, and I had fostered such hopes of friendship between them! I shall follow your lead, then, and cut him loose. He will not be kept, so I haven't much choice in any case, the ungrateful wretch!

Now, Addie, you asked for good cheer, and I do have news which I hope will raise your spirits and give you much to think on. I wanted to reply to your letter first, but I have been fairly bursting with this new bit of intelligence--James has succeeded in discovering the identity of our mysterious Rabbit! He came to me only last night with the news. It would seem that Elyse Bellefeuille, born to Luc and Marie Bellefeuille in London 1861, married one Charles Reginald Westley at St. Mary's in Stoke Newington, June of 1883! As extraordinary as this may seem in itself, that our Rabbit should be your own aunt, and that you should have been unaware of your uncle ever having been married, I must go on and bewilder you further. Your uncle applied for and obtained a divorce from his wife a few months after their marriage, after which she was promptly registered in London as being joined in a civil marriage to Walter Thomas Westley. I knew your mother's Christian name was Elyse, Addie, but I am so accustomed to think of her as "Mrs. Westley," or indeed as simply "Addie's mother," that I am sure I never knew her family name. Can it be that you never knew it, either? In any case, Addie, it would seem that you have been lied to as regards your maternal grandfather, who died little more than a year ago! What a shame you should never have known him! It is making me dizzy to consider all the aspects of your life this revelation may affect, dearest, and I am sure you must be in a right state over it. I suppose you will write to your mother? I must dress for an engagement tonight, and so I will post this now and compose a longer letter tomorrow. I am eager to hear your news, and hoping that this letter finds you well, or at the very least, better than I left you last.

Sincerely,

Maitland Bristow

14 Bathurst Mews
London

Go on to the next letter, Letter 47 - Performance

Narrative 45 - March Sunshine

2010-04-11T18:32:00.008+01:00

(The narrative which forms "March Sunshine," as it falls within the chronology of Letters so far, is a flashback. The events described take place in early March 1903, giving us a brief glimpse of Peter's life during this time. The action of the narrative is, chronologically, sandwiched between events mentioned in Letter 34 - A Walk in the Park. The reader would do well to review Letter 34 before continuing with "March Sunshine," and possibly review Narrative 42 - Baisers de Vierge to better orient him or herself within the chain of events influenced by the action that occurs.)

Peter Bristow skimmed carefully down the agony column of the Daily Telegraph. After a most intriguing message in the 8 February Telegraph had been submitted to his notice in early March, Peter had gone to some lengths to locate copies of that most prodigious periodical for each day of the preceding week, as well as the week following. The issue he currently perused, dated 6 February, had been collected from a fishmonger's ice chest. It was accordingly rather ill-used and odorous, but it was nonetheless legible, and therefore suited Peter's purpose. He passed over the usual rubbish--"One gold and paste cufflink found outside Bond Street Station, rightful owner apply 151 Camden Street after 8 o'clock to claim;" "Mother too harsh with dear Jackie, please come home, all forgiven;" "Gentleman in red waistcoat greatly wishes to make acquaintance of lady in emerald velvet frock who occupied top box last night Savoy opera"--and then, just below "Lost tin dispatch box in hansom cab, blue and gold paint, ever so important, £10 reward if returned unspoiled, apply 15 Middle Temple Ln," Peter found what he had been seeking: "BH, advise against proposal, procure lure prior to fishing, AR." Peter relaxed in his chair, gazing at the paper at arm's length for a moment before laying it carefully on the surface of the desk. He extracted a similarly abused copy of the Telegraph and smoothed it out alongside its fellow, reviewing the message of 8 February with renewed interest: "BH, trouble swallowing? Request advice, AR." There the series of messages had ended--at least up to the present date. The preceding dialogue had lasted for little over a month, since the beginning of the year, to be exact, and was no more illuminating than this final pair of notes--a lot of cryptic nonsense about big game hunting, grand prizes, birds in the bush--the entire conversation would certainly have appeared inane if not for the way in which it had been brought to Peter's attention. The question, then, was why anyone had thought it important that he should follow this lead?

These thoughts were interrupted by the bell, and Peter rose to admit his housekeeper. Mrs. Ward was a solid little woman, and despite her rather dull appearance Peter thought it likely she was more shrewd than most of her acquaintance gave her credit for. Offering him the morning post, she went directly to work in the kitchen with only a solemn nod in greeting. Peter returned to his writing desk and shuffled through the small stack of correspondence, pausing as his fingers found a paper of superior quality. Separating the fine ivory colored envelope from its neighbours, Peter could not suppress a thrill of anticipation as his eyes fell upon the return address, written in a familiar and distinctly feminine hand. He removed the note inside, and read:

27 February 1903

Peter,

How very altruistic of you to write. As a token of our childhood friendship, I am delighted to report to you that I sustained only minor bruising and humiliation. Do not trouble yourself any further for my welfare--I know I shan't trouble myself any further for yours.

Kind regards,

Adeline Westley

Peter had dropped the note in digust and swept it to the back of his writing desk before he realised it. He should be pleased, he knew, that Miss Westley was in spirits enough to write such a reply, and that she at least claimed to have been little harmed as a result of her abduction. He was not simple enough to believe, however, that she would have divulged her greater hurt to him, or any man, no matter what her spirits. Upon reflection, he did not even know why he had written her--he should have known her response could never have provided answers for his exhaustive inquiries. Nevertheless, it was more than vexing to receive such a reply. Had she but written more, no matter the content, he might have gained a better knowledge of her precise state of mind, and thereby gleaned a better picture of her experience. She would keep this from him, however, and it irked him to such a degree as he could not account for. He retrieved the letter from where he had tossed it and read it over again carefully. "Why cannot a woman be civil!" He had exclaimed this to the heavens, but it would seem that it had fallen on other ears, for Mrs. Ward presently appeared at his side and asked him to repeat his instruction. "Pardon me, Mrs. Ward, I was merely applying to the powers that be for civility from a particular woman. You needn't be troubled yourself, as you are most commendably courteous to me, and I thank you for it." Mrs. Ward nodded and turned away, mumbling as she went, "Poor girl must be besotted." Peter, who had not missed her meaning, and experienced a piquant sting of irritation at the liberties his servant had taken, responded rather shortly, "Perhaps you ought not to read over a man's shoulder, but I can assure you that she cares nothing for me." Mrs. Ward continued on her way back to the kitchen, shaking her head, "I could not help but see what was right before my eyes, Mr. Bristow. But womenfolk are not so simple as you seem to think. I'll lay you won't find a woman who could write such a fiery note to anyone she did not care for, and I've five daughters who would say the same." Peter looked up to watch her retreat, and found his fit of temper subsiding rapidly. After all, she was a good, honest woman. A hard worker, and really an excellent person in all respects. Tucking his yellowed Telegraph issues carefully into a drawer and rising from his desk, he crossed to the window and drew the blinds. It was a fine, clear day, and Peter suddenly felt rather enthusiastically disposed to walk out and enjoy the rare March sunshine.

Go on to the next letter, Letter 46 - Rabbit

Letter 44 - Of God and Angels

2010-03-24T01:28:00.012Z

Miss Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London

4 July 1903

Dear Maisie,

Friend of my heart, I have suffered greatly in not hearing from you for so very long! Even so, how can I be anything but pleased with the new friend you have found in Mr. Murphy? I find myself once again the jealous admirer of your good fortune. Oh! How providence finds you even in the wake of Stuart Hill! I understand your reservations concerning Mr. Rousseau, but I would ask you to consider it from my own point of view. Mr. Hill's adoration came to you in a deluge, and however it tormented you to deny him, here you find yourself again, so easily the recipient of new love. It is different for me. Who will have me? Where have I to rest my head?

I'm writing you this letter at the dusk of day, knowing reading would be less healing than penning you the story of today's events.

Today's forenoon found me waiting outside in the garden for Vaughn. He was uncharacteristically late. He had requested my company on this occasion nearly two weeks prior, and despite his great efforts in remaining quite nonchalant about the day's significance, there was little to be left unforeseen. I had envisaged the scene many times over in my mind these last weeks, and had decided that 'yes' would surely be my answer. I've mulled over every possibility, Maisie. I am not blind to the valley that divides Vaughn and I, nor am I naive about my circumstances here in Paris. I have no parents here, no inheritance to speak of, and therefore, no other avenue left to travel. My uncle is growing restless with my occupancy, and it is time to move forward.

The sun streamed down its welcome warmth, and I seated myself to bask in it, expecting Vaughn every moment. The breeze swept through the blades of grass, and up over the shallow hills of the field. Not seeing much reason to resist the desire, I lay down in the quiet meadow to wait--to wait for Vaughn to pass through the gates of the garden, and reshape every dream I have held dear since I was a young girl. I closed my eyes, and it was not Vaughn that I saw. The ghosting thought of Peter stirred such angst in me, it seemed to take root inside my very heart. The conviction that logic and reason could stifle what I feel for him--however foolish I may be for feeling it--has failed me. What torturous road I wend my way down next in the name of good sense matters little. His kind hand in mine, leading me away from here, has been my only request of God and his angels--however unanswered that supplication shall remain. There is some peace in braving that truth, Maisie, and the simple truth that he still has all of me.

Upon the sound of Vaughn's approach, I was in a condition I could not altogether conceal from him.

"Adeline, get yourself up off the ground. What childish behaviour is this?"

I stood slowly, Vaughn extending his hand to help me up. Vaughn was unusually tense, not taking any notice of my shaken mood in the least, and we barely spoke as he lead me off the estate. He escorted me to the entrance of the Jardin des Plantes, and we walked side by side. He was clearly out of sorts. Uncertain as to what I could do to appease him, I suggested we rest on a nearby bench that was shaded by a flowering Japanese Cherry near the aviary. Despite my sympathy for whatever troubled him, I felt that after all I had conceded in my heart and mind to this man, I needed to ask him what exactly transpired after my abduction. The cherry blossoms drifted aimlessly to the ground around us as I collected my courage.

"Vaughn, I need you to relay the story of my rescue in its entirety ... "

He was visibly irritated by the request, "Adeline--we have been through this."

"But we have not--"

The very mention of it caused him such anxiety, that I immediately regretted the question. He folded his hands, his knuckles white with the pressure. He was on his feet now, "Mr. Westley had called the authorities, but I could not sit and do nothing. I went to the streets. I--I paid a man in La Chapelle and he said he had seen a girl of your description."

"But why did you not bring me home yourself? I do not understand."

He grasped my hand, squeezing it tightly. He then gripped my shoulders, his gaze piercing through me and the frustration plain on his face. He dropped his head but maintained his grip, "Adeline--I paid the Frenchman to bring you home. You were in danger ... and I was hurt in the process of your rescue ... " It seemed a most magnificent account, indeed. And there I sat, at the crossroad of my future and all that had passed. Was this truth? And it soon became clear that it made little difference. It was at that moment I chose to lay down my arms, and hand him my confidence, with the fondest of hope that he would prove to be a worthy steward of it. And I looked upon him, perhaps for the first time, with a semblance of love and a deep desire to requite him for his sacrifices. I placed a tender hand on his cheek, "Thank you, Vaughn. We need not speak of it again." Smiling, I let my gaze trail away with the pink blossoms down the path. What happened after this, Maisie, I know you are keen enough to predict. My gaze meandered back in his direction to find him kneeling down beside me. With a glimmer of vulnerability in his expression he asked, "Adeline, marry me." But what followed, I could not have foreseen, nor will I soon recover from. A physical pain struck me at his words, Maisie. My sight went black, Vaughn faded away, and I found myself back in the brothel with that horrible stranger. I lay prostrate on the bed, trembling, while he lowered his face so that his hot breath scorched my ear and whispered, "Marry me." I can only guess that it was the first time I had awoken since losing consciousness in the alley near the flower market. His hands were busy at my hips, my waist, slipping under me to the small of my back, pulling the fabric back and forth across my body. I lay gasping for breath, and in my fear and confusion attempted to understand what exactly he was doing. He was dressing me, Maisie. He seemed to fancy every part of it. At last he slid my arms into the lace gown as I sobbed. He pulled me to my feet. His face was striking, handsome, and inches from mine. He looked down at my bare shoulder, and slowly pulled up the sleeve of the white dress.

"Don't be frightened," he breathed, as I stood shaking.

He leaned in. Not wanting him to draw a whit closer, I assembled my courage and whispered, "I'm not your unfortunate woman."

He laughed, seeming genuinely amused, then came in close, "You think that wise of you, bunter? Best to break you in now, love." The familiar sight of his raised arm gave way to the impact of his heavy hand against my face. I wanted desperately to create some illusion of bravery; but with the very breath knocked from my body, I had to call upon all my faculties just to keep myself erect. The man paced the width of the room, then approached me, his rough hands brushing down the sides of my face, "I'd fancy nothing more than to unrig you tonight--but seeing as how I'm a gentleman, I'll wait until the vicar makes it official tomorrow." He seemed quite pleased with himself, and smiled broadly as he paced slowly backwards, his dark eyes locked on mine, and shut the door. The screams felt as if they were torn from my throat, but upon realising my cries would remain unnoticed in this place, I allowed the screams to dissolved into sobs as I collapsed upon the wide, wooden planks of the floor. My cries had hushed to a near silence by the time I felt the fear loosening its grip as I drifted to sleep. Everything shifted to black again, and the daylight and the park broke through. I found Vaughn standing over me on the pavement, frantic, "Adeline--ah, you are alright." But I was not alright, Maisie. He helped me back up to my former seat on the bench, and asked with trepidation, "What was it?"

"I, I--"

"--We will most certainly need you to be seen by Dr. Laroche immediately. You blacked out, Adeline."

Moment after moment of silence ensued, as I attempted to gather control of my emotions. Vaughn moved in closer, and knowing him as I do, I knew he considered his unanswered proposal to be the most pressing of matters. I could not bear to hear the words again. I was in such mental anguish, all I could do was whisper, "No, Vaughn ... no." He stiffened, "You need more time. Of course. Let us return to your uncle's and have some tea, then." He stood and turned, walking briskly back to the entrance of the park, leaving me to steady myself, alone. I nearly fell to pieces, Maisie. Where can any goodness be found?

There is no engagement as of yet, Maisie. I know Vaughn will not be satisfied with my response, however, and will no doubt broach the subject again soon. I am anxious to hear your news, Maisie. I am in such need of your good cheer.

Yours,

Adeline Westley

23 rue Saint Paul
Paris

Go on to the next section, Narrative 45 - March Sunshine

Letter 43 - Primula Auricula

2010-03-20T23:26:00.004Z

Miss Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris

25 May 1903

Dearest Addie,

You know how I admire a fine intellect, and it seems that you have found one in Mr. Rousseau. I know nothing of medicine, of course, and little of French, but it seems to me that your suitor is well placed to make a name for himself among the well-respected scientists and scholars of our time. If you are happy, Addie, I congratulate you with all my heart. I am not, however, altogether secure in the conviction that you are happy, dearest. My advice is this: speak to him--invite his confidence. Surely there is not a man alive who could resist your pretty coaxings on so trivial a point. He is intelligent, respected, and he has saved your from frightful danger at great personal risk. Only you can decide whether it is enough.

As for me, I have a good story for you. I returned from my ride this morning to discover Mum in a state of mild agitation. She informed me that Mr. Murphy had called soon after I went out and--upon learning that I was not likely to return for better than an hour--requested permission to wait. Mum granted it to him, of course, and she described him as a lively companion for the first hour of his stay, after which he began to express some concern that I would not arrive home before he had to take his leave in order to make an appointment. He then applied to her for a bit of paper and a pen in order to scribble me a note, whereupon she directed him to my own well-stocked writing desk. Mum was wild with curiosity over what he might have written, he having disappeared for some time before emerging from my room and begging his leave to call again tomorrow, as he was required at Scotland Yard almost directly, and could not wait a moment longer. I will not pretend I was not curious myself, and I proceeded to my room to find a single flower on my pillow--a primrose, and such a lovely old English garden flower as I have always admired in the country but never managed to coax into bloom in any of my flower boxes. Beneath the blossom was a sheet of my own stationary, folded in half. His script is not so elegant as some, Addie, but his words were so pure--so artless! I shall copy it for you:

Dear Miss Bristow,

I had hoped to see you today, and deliver this small gift to you from
my hands. As that cannot be, I leave it for you to find in my absence,
and hope that it is no less pretty for the delay. I had greatly wished to
see you today, but will wait patiently for that privilege on the morrow.

Your humble servant,

James Murphy

The reason for his prolonged disappearance was soon explained by the small pile of discarded papers which had been tucked neatly into the bin next to the desk--each an attempt at conveying the same message, but with varying language. I cannot say how sweet it seemed to me, that he would worry so about the particulars of this simple note.

I am so sorry, Addie, I had meant to finish your letter sooner, but I have been occupied with one thing or another these past few weeks. I hope you will not think ill of me when I tell you that I have spent a great deal of my time with Mr. Murphy. Mum is highly gratified, of course, and I can only excuse myself by telling you that his presence serves to distract my mind from the desolate reflections that plague it so continually when I am left to myself. I told you of Mr. Murphy's note at the start of this letter, and I am now well positioned to inform you that he gained his objective by returning the day after leaving my primrose. He truly did seem delighted to see me, although I am not sure what would account for anyone's pleasure in my company of late. Mum asked Mr. Murphy to stay for tea and he in turn requested that I accompany him in taking a turn round the park while the preparations were made. I offered to stay and help, of course, but Mum would not have it. She may as well have shooed me out the door. So we walked, and the day was so fine I could not help but appreciate the lovely scents and the sunlight on the water of the pond. Mr. Murphy is not tall or striking in appearance, Addie, but his features are good. He has a very pleasant face, and is so earnest and good-natured a fellow that his looks are enhanced by it. Neither is he poor in conversation. He spoke of his family in Ireland and I spoke of you, dearest. I have come to the conclusion that he is either extremely polite or particularly sympathetic, for he seems to always inquire into my affairs with genuine concern and interest. He introduced the subject of riding and, although he concealed it admirably well, I believe he had been under the impression that Dad was merely a glorified ostler for Sir Charles. I am sure he must have been puzzled by our situation in the mews, however, because (as far as his expression alone might serve as a guide) the revelation seemed to satisfy some inquiry which he had not thought it polite to make, and yet also to upset him in some way. He afterwards informed me quite modestly that, while his own father was not a celebrated equestrian, he himself had learnt riding at an early age, and if there was any thing he missed about his former country home (apart from his family) it was his horses. Here was such a sincere expression of appreciation that, had I been disinclined to ride with Mr. Murphy, I would yet have felt obliged to offer him the opportunity. As it was, I was not at all opposed to the idea, and immediately engaged him to ride with me the following morning. I should have invited him to ride that very evening, had I not promised Mum to accompany her to the New Theatre to see Rosemary, and I told him so. I only wished I had some excuse to avoid the theatrical excursion altogether, as I had heard that the play is a light romance, and I was in no mood to tolerate any such thing. I did not mention my aversion to trifling displays of romantic frivolity to my companion, however, and had sunk into a silent reverie on a topic I should do better to avoid when Mr. Murphy interrupted my thoughts with, "Do you attend much theatre?" I could only reply that I did not, although I worried it might disappoint him. Gladly, he seemed to share my taste on this head, and exclaimed that, for himself, he was quite tired of it. Before he settled in London he had not had the opportunity, coming from a country farm in Ireland, and since he had arrived he had been invited to plays far more often than he could wish. He was only too happy to hear of my usual habit of walking or riding in the evening in place of going out, and I rather suspect that--as I later discovered that his beat is an evening one--he was somewhat relieved to know that I was not spending those twilit hours at the theatre on the arm of some other gentleman.

Mr. Murphy and I take our morning ride together now, and we have also spent considerable time pouring over books in the afternoons. What do you think, Addie? Mr. Murphy is a great admirer of literature! He has read all of my favorites--Austen, the Brontës, Dickens, Wordsworth, Tennyson, Lord Byron--I could scarcely have advised a better canon had I been consulted in the matter. Mum says I am never more animated than when Mr. Murphy has engaged me in a debate over some literary question. Last night I was at great pains to convince him that Heathcliff, while hardly a man to be admired in general, does in fact possess characteristics of merit. Mr. Murphy considers Heathcliff to be the vilest of beings, and cannot abide what Heathcliff's obsession causes Cathy to suffer; while I hold the opinion that the two of them rather deserve one another--being equally matched in both virtue and folly. Mr. Murphy was referencing the scene in which Cathy first shows kindness to Hareton, and as he opened the page in my second-hand copy, I saw it again--the inscription that had so preoccupied my fancy last summer. I was delighted, and related all of our speculations to James, whereupon he immediately placed himself at my service in the matter, volunteering to consult the London and Dorset county birth and marriage records for a Miss E. Bellefeuille in hopes of discovering our Rabbit's married name. I shall keep you informed, of course.

Before I post this long overdue letter (it is now over a month since I began it!), I must quickly relay to you a most singular event which occurred this afternoon while I was returning from a pilgrimage to Holywell Street Strand with Mr. Murphy. I had very much wished to visit my favorite shops in the hopes of finding some new and worthy reading material, and Mr. Murphy obligingly hired a hansom for the journey out, although I insisted that we make our return on foot through the parks. It was an exceptionally fine day, and I was very well satisfied with my spoils--three volumes of poetry which Mr. Murphy insisted upon carrying for me. It was a glorious day, and the only speck upon my high spirits was the apparent distraction of my companion, who had seemed somewhat preoccupied ever since we had arrived at Holywell Street. We were perhaps a third of the way back to the mews, on the point of leaving Pall Mall for Green Park, when Mr. Murphy stopped abruptly and asked me to kindly wait a moment, and not to move from the spot upon which I stood until he returned. I obeyed, but turned on the spot and watched him walk back the way we had come for some fifty yards, cross to the other side of the street, and approach two gentlemen who appeared to be surveying the contents of a shop window. He exchanged words with one of them briefly, tipped his hat, and returned to me without delay, taking my arm and steering me in our original direction. His expression was rather grimmer than when he had left me, but he volunteered no explanation for the strange performance. I had no intention of accepting his silence on the matter, however, and directly asked him what it was all about. "I had rather not say, Miss Bristow," he began, "but since you ask, I will not deny you. We have been followed all the forenoon, and at last I could no longer tolerate it. I confronted the guilty gentlemen and they admitted as much." I am sure I hardly need tell you, Addie, of my surprise upon hearing this little narrative, nor of the curiosity which such a limited explanation inspired. "Is that all?" I pressed, "How did they attempt to excuse themselves? What could they possibly mean by it?" Mr. Murphy halted on the path and turned to me with a sigh of resignation before speaking. "I do not wish to promote slander, Miss Bristow. Please do not think me motivated by petty jealousies when I tell you that the men who have been shadowing us were employed by one Mr. Stuart Hill of Grosvenor Square. They assured me that their employer had not sworn them to any vow of secrecy, and that I might take it up with him if I wished for privacy with the lady." I cannot recall particulars of the remainder of the walk home, as my mind was busily engaged in sorting and classifying this new information. I have come to the conclusion that I am well rid of a man who would interfere in such a way, when he himself is not willing to confide in me! I asked him for the truth, and he refused. How, then, does he see fit to meddle in my personal affairs? It is outrageous, Addie, and the only good that has come of it is this: should I meet Mr. Hill again, I shall have quite enough ammunition to withstand his stealthy attacks on my good sense. I shall certainly do as you advise in your letter, yet it would seem that although I myself have determined not to "allow my disappointment over Mr. Hill to destroy any chance for other amiable prospects," the aforementioned Mr. Hill will undertake the sabotage himself! I am quite angry enough at the moment that I do not think I should hesitate to throw objects at a certain man were he to present himself. Despite my long walk I am feeling exceedingly energetic, and believe that an excursion to the post office will do me good. Write soon.

Sincerely,

Maitland Bristow

14 Bathurst Mews
London

Go on to the next letter, Letter 44 - Of God and Angels

Narrative 42 - Baisers de Vierge

2010-02-27T01:13:00.008Z

(The narrative which forms "Baisers de Vierge," as it falls within the chronology of Letters so far, is a flashback. The events described take place on 7 February 1903, chronicling the adventures of Stuart on the evening of the day he and Maisie meet Mr. Collins in Portobello Market. The action of the narrative is, chronologically, sandwiched between events mentioned in Letter 29 - Mr. Collins. The reader would do well to review Letter 29 before continuing with "Baisers de Vierge," and possibly review Letters 32, 34, and 36 directly after finishing, to better orient him or herself within the chain of events influenced by the action that occurs.)

Stuart Hill had never had cause to take rooms at the Savoy Hotel, his father's winter home in Belgravia being less than two miles from the Strand, but he had dined at the restaurant on a particular occasion during his Oxford years, and had professional connexions which ensured that he was not unknown to certain members of the hotel staff. He approached the concierge and inquired as to whether the hotel was currently accommodating a Joseph Collins, Jr.. He was not surprised to receive a response in the affirmative, and presented himself at the room indicated without delay. A tall man admitted him with a smile, introduced himself as Mr. Krause, and, closing the door behind his guest, gestured toward one of the fine mahogany sofas which furnished the foyer. Stuart, who had not the slightest inclination to sit, seated himself with the appearance of ease and indifference.

"Your chum Collins was right about you. You are clever." The man settled himself on a particularly lavish embroidered silk arm chair as he spoke, and Stuart noted that--apart from removing his hat--he had not changed his clothing since their meeting in Portobello Market that afternoon.

"It would be very civil of me to say the same of you, I suppose, but, sadly, I am prevented from making such a nicety. Collins never spoke of you."

"No, I daresay he did not. Or rather, he could not. Seeing you today put me powerfully in mind of him--you resemble him a great deal. Still, I am afraid I could not find it in my schedule to allow him time to say good-bye to old chums. Terribly sorry, you know. But business is business--I'm sure you understand. Which reminds me--I should like to make you an offer."

"Well, that is unfortunate for you, since I should like to refuse any offer you might conceivably make." This Stuart had resolved on the moment he realized the man desired a meeting with him. For this stranger to style himself as the friend Stuart mourned more than any other, for him to mention the famous dish Stuart had enjoyed with his friend on the singular occasion of his dining at the Savoy Grill--it was as clear an invitation as Stuart had ever received. The purpose of the meeting remained in doubt, to be sure, but he felt immovably certain that he wanted no part of Krause's offer. Indeed, Stuart was averse to the very sight of the man. It was due to him that Stuart had been constrained to hurt and bewilder Maisie, the implications of which rendered Stuart unsure as to whether he might continue in her favor--or indeed, whether he even deserved such an honor. Further, in light of Krause's admitted association with the murder of Collins (which Stuart considered perhaps the most despicable of the offenses which Krause seemed to heap continuously on Stuart's head), there was no question of an alliance with him. The only question that remained was how to rid himself of such an unwelcome petitioner.

"Yes, well, I suspected your feelings might run along those lines. You do not want for wealth or station, nor, it would seem, for the attentions of women," and here Krause smiled so lecherously that Stuart was put to prodigious effort to stop himself from striking the man. "In fact," Krause continued, "I was so sure you would be unwilling to see reason, that I took particular pains to procure some other means to persuade you. I am rather disappointed that you have not already mentioned it. I had rather expected you to come in "guns blazing," as it were. Surely, you know me capable of doing whatever is necessary to obtain your services, however regrettable the waste that might result. I have a great appreciation for beauty. I should not like to destroy anything so fine and lovely as your fiancée."

Stuart had been waiting for this. He had known Maisie was in danger the moment he had observed the man's indecent attentions to her at the market. He had not, however, been prepared for the surge of hostility that overtook him on hearing Krause mention her destruction so casually. His loathing for the man who called himself Krause had been growing steadily ever since his admittance to the suite, and Stuart felt himself at perilous risk of losing his head to its poisonous influence. Stuart was unused to the interference of such an overpowering emotion in the course of his professional duties, and found himself unequal to ignoring it entirely. He took a deep breath, and, unable to repress a rather grim smile, said, "You will be happy, then, when I inform you that you shall not have opportunity to harm anything of beauty ever again."

Krause was, apparently, unmoved by either fear or regret. "I see that you are contemplating violence, Mr. Hill, but I advise against it. I have the advantage, you see," at this he shifted slightly to display the handsome Luger pistol which had been concealed beneath his jacket, "but I would much prefer to exploit you as a living resource. According to poor Collins, your talents are astonishing. In any case, once you are dead, what is to stop me from calling on your grieving young lady, and enjoying her a bit before I put her out of her misery?"

Again, it took more than the usual effort for Stuart to set aside his emotions, but he was sensible to the urgency that he remain in command of his outward expressions--he must not slip again--it was of utmost importance that he betray no more feeling for that which he treasured most. The desperate necessity of his object granted him the calm he required, and he managed to keep his voice cool and even as he replied, "Such a question is not relative to this interview, as I have no intention of dying here tonight."

Mr. Krause appeared delighted, and rose to shake hands with his guest, saying in a jubilant tone, "I am glad to hear it. Then we will come to an arrangement. Let us make ourselves comfortable, that we may settle the terms to your particular pleasure and advantage."

Stuart rose to meet the man, sensing the opportunity such a close contact implied. It was time to act. Taking hold of the offered hand, Stuart wrapped his thumb over that of Mr. Krause, pulled the arm downward and backward, twisted it behind Krause's back, and pushed the man's face to the plush carpet. The impact of this maneuver elicited a grunt from Mr. Krause, and Stuart heard it with a high degree of satisfaction, as he had long felt the man's decorous posturing to be growing tiresome. From there it required only a flick of his free arm to extract the Luger from its holster and turn it on its master. "Did you kill my friend Collins?" Stuart asked in a disinterested sort of voice, much to the contradiction of his feelings.

"I certainly did."

"Are you acting alone in coming to recruit me?"

"If I was, do you really think I would admit to it? It took a great deal more than this sort of thing to persuade your friend to provide the information I desired. In fact, I am quite insulted."

This was rather more honest an answer than Stuart had expected, but in the end it made no difference. Although, gazing down at the prone form of the man at his feet, he found himself most surprisingly inclined towards actions that had used to disgust him, he acknowledged simultaneously that there was not time for anything so elaborate, nor even much use for what little information he might gain from such efforts. "As to that," Stuart replied, releasing his hold on Mr. Krause, "I can assure you I meant no disrespect. I have the highest respect for you abilities. It is your methods I cannot agree with."

"Which is fortunate for me," rejoined Krause, rising from the floor with a pleasant smile and as much dignity as the action could afford him, "but I am afraid such a noble opinion will not prevent me from doing what I must to achieve my purposes, and if you do not wish me to continue to pursue you as an asset, you shall have to kill me."

"All right." It was over in moments. Stuart stood panting slightly and nursing what felt remarkably like a cracked rib or two, and the man who called himself Krause lay motionless on the Axminster, his eyes fixed unseeingly on the extravagant chandelier. The Luger remained where Stuart had tossed it, unfired, on the arm chair Krause had recently vacated. Krause had not been so dependent on his firearm as Stuart had hoped, and had managed to land a devastating blow before Stuart was close enough to apply the necessary force to the man's unprotected throat. Wincing, Stuart made a brief but thorough search of the suite and all its rooms. Several sets of fine clothing, toiletries, a second Luger, a wallet full of notes, and a writing kit--empty of any correspondence--were of no interest. The British passport included a description of Krause, was issued in the name of Benjamin Harvey of Yorkshire, and contained recent stamps from Germany, France, and South Africa. This Stuart pocketed, along with a few minor forms of identification bearing the name of Harvey, but the other items he left untouched. It was now a matter of alerting his contact among the Savoy staff to the need for a discreet removal of the body and possessions, and of arranging the discovery of the body so as to convey the correct message to Krause's superiors. Stuart quickly settled upon the ideal location, reflecting that The Prospect of Whitby ought to do--in any case, the proprietor owed him a favor.

Go on to the next letter, Letter 43 - Primula Auricula

Letter 41 - Brillant

2010-02-17T19:49:00.004Z

Miss Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London

15 May 1903

Dear Maisie,

First and foremost, you must forgive me. I did not mean any offense in proposing that Stuart may have had a deeper involvement with Mr. Collins' death. It certainly was a most fantastic thing to suggest any foul-play on Stuart's part, and I do trust your intuition in the matter. Furthermore, you must heed your mother's advise, Maisie. You mustn't allow your disappointment over Mr. Hill to destroy any chance for other amiable prospects to make themselves known. What about this constable--Mr. Murphy, is it? He seems to provide a rather stark contrast to Stuart Hill in both honesty and transparency. It is my advice that you abandon any more fruitless thinking of Mr. Hill straightaway!

As for my own news--I have little. I have entreated Vaughn for some time now to escort me to one of his lectures at La Sorbonne, and yesterday he finally obliged. We entered the grand amphitheatre in the latter part of the afternoon--Maisie, it was exquisite! I turned to Vaughn to remark on its loveliness, unable to keep myself focused in one direction as there was so much beauty and artistry around me, "This is magnificent, Vaughn ... " But he did not respond. He was completely engrossed in shuffling about through his notes for his discourse. Students began to stream into the great hall and take their seats. I touched the sleeve of his shirt, "I know you shan't need it, but I wish you the best of luck ... " Maisie, it was as if I were invisible. Vaughn adjusted his spectacles and looked up, seeing his professor. He hurried in his direction, leaving me standing there quite alone. "Professeur Barrère--" His voice echoed, then trailed off as he left my side. I must say, I felt most bewildered at the sight of the amphitheatre filling with not only what looked to be students of Vaughn's age, but also many older gentlemen. I took a seat at the end of one of the long, wooden benches. Two young men took their seats beside me, and immediately began to comment on the forthcoming lecture.

"What do you make of Barrère choosing Rousseau for the conference?"

I was most interested to hear the other man's answer. Not merely because this conversation was the only English being spoken within earshot,and my command of French is not yet such as enables me to speak or understand much at all when it comes to medicine, but because it suddenly seemed so pivotal a moment--after all, what do Vaughn's colleagues make of this man I have paired myself with? I had never thought much beyond my own measure of him, but here was an opportunity to learn something of the way he is regarded in the wider world.

"It seemed clear at the start of the year it would be Rousseau, do you not agree?"

"I do. 'Tis a pity the man has such an air about him--I should like to have benefited from such brilliance."

Brilliance? The echoing chatter in the amphitheatre began to lessen, until a silence fell upon the crowd as Vaughn approached the podium. He addressed the students and many visitors of La Sorbonne with much poise and confidence. I daresay, however, that much of his oration was quite foreign to my knowledge. I was only able to comprehend the emphasis being placed on Vaughn's cholera research, and that he seemed to possess many resolute opinions on the subject. The audience was rapt. I felt such a range of emotion as I sat listening to him. The first, and most pronounced, were respect and pride. However, it did not take long for other feelings to fight their way in. As I sat watching him, I could not help but remember the words of your last letter, Maisie. It is true, I have not yet mustered the nerve to require a full account of the events that took place the night I was taken. Perhaps that is the source of my unrest. I hadn't long to dwell on it, however. After only half an hour, Vaughn dismissed himself to resounding applause. I clapped along with the general commendation and smiled widely at him as he made his way down the aisle to find a seat beside me. The two students to my left reached across me to congratulate Vaughn. Vaughn slid his arm around my shoulder, saying, "May I introduce Mademoiselle Adeline Westley?" The two young men, one of them appearing decidedly uncomfortable upon learning that I was intimately acquainted with the man whose "air" he had criticized, nodded politely and turned their attention to the podium, where a new speaker had taken Vaughn's place. I folded my hands in my lap, glancing in Vaughn's direction to find him most perplexed by the lecture in progress. He leaned in close to me and whispered, "Surely this man cannot refute the evidence that it is water-bourne!" I managed a simple smile, wishing I could offer a more relevant response. I have always known Vaughn to be a clever man, Maisie, but not until that moment had I realized what a superior intellect he possesses.

I haven't much more to relay to you, Maisie; perhaps a few weeks time will provide more apropos occasions to pen down. Do write soon, dear.

Yours,

Adeline Westley

23 rue Saint Paul
Paris

Go on to the next section, Narrative 42 - Baisers de Vierge

Letter 40 - Education

2010-01-26T05:05:00.003Z

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

Go on to the next letter, Letter 41 - Brillant

Letter 39 - Addendum

2010-01-25T03:54:00.004Z

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

Go on to the next letter, Letter 40 - Education

Narrative 38 - Datura

2010-01-13T01:40:00.017Z

(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.

Go on to the next letter, Letter 39 - Addendum

Letter 37 - Chez Rousseau

2010-01-05T02:54:00.006Z

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

Go on to the next section, Narrative 38 - Datura

Letter 36 - Sense and Sensibility

2009-12-12T19:28:00.007Z

Miss Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris

18 April 1903

Dearest Addie,

I received your letter with gladness, but read it with mounting concern. I cannot begin to fathom the horror of your experience--and for these recollections to come on you so suddenly! I also know that you have experienced much disappointment in regard to your suitors, and I fear this revelation regarding Mr. Rousseau might be, in your mind, the worst of the lot. However I may dislike him for his past treatment of you, it would not do to show him less than gratitude for the service he has rendered. But you do not owe him more than that, Addie, and I beg you to remember it. Even wrapped up in my own concerns as I have been--how selfish and indulgent!--I cannot repress the curiosity that your letter has inspired in me. It seems to me that Mr. Rousseau has been suing for your favor as long as he has known you, yet he held back his part in your rescue for some time ... what can he mean by it?

I have news for you as well, and it is perhaps not less puzzling than your own, if for altogether different reasons. Stuart came calling for me the day after I left him in Green Park, and I baldly refused to receive him. Dad was rather concerned, Mum was abidingly patient, and Peter--as far as I know--was entirely ignorant of my situation. Stuart came to apply for an audience with me every day for a week, and I dutifully refused him each time, and was quite miserable for my pains. Mum was persistent in inviting my confidence, and at length I explained to her all that was troubling me. I did not enter into details, of course, not wishing to indict Stuart to the point that his reputation might be harmed, but I expressed the painful conclusion that I had been intentionally deceived. It was not difficult for her to convince me to speak with Stuart, and allow him the opportunity to acquit himself. I am not unaware of the irony which attended my interventions on his behalf--why should I care for the maintenance of his good name if I truly believed him to be unworthy of it? The natural conclusion is that I was quite as eager as Mum to have the lie explained away, and so, having gained the patronage of my mother for what had been my dearest wish all along, I dressed for the outdoors the following morning and prepared to receive Stuart at last. I was not keen to have my accusations overheard by any other member of the household, and so I asked Stuart to walk out with me, and he obliged. I was painfully reminded of the last time we had walked thus together, and I could not bring myself to accept the arm he offered as we started out toward the park. I had decided to allow Stuart a chance to excuse himself, but hadn't any idea of how to begin. At length, as we rounded the pond, Stuart spoke. "How have I offended you, Maisie?" His voice was gentle, and his every gesture careful and subdued.

"I do not fancy being lied to, Mr. Hill."

"But what lie do you speak of?" Had Stuart been innocent, this query might have passed as his attempt to discover the root of my confusion, and thereby to correct my understanding. As I knew he was quite guilty, it suddenly occurred to me that he had likely been party to more deceit than this, and wished to discern which untruth I had uncovered so as to avoid revealing any of the others by misstep. This, I confess, spurred my anger and prompted me to speak with more passion than I had intended.

"Do not pretend with me, Stuart! Do you deny knowing that your friend Mr. Collins was dead long before you supposedly met him at Portobello Market?"

At this, Stuart ceased walking. I do not know that I have ever seen him at such a loss. He covered his face with one hand for a moment, then seemed to come to a decision. "I do not deny it." I had not expected this, Addie. I had been sure he would attempt to cover his lie with yet more prevarication. But I was glad, in a perverse sort of way. My anger had been vindicated, and I could unleash it on its object without scruple. I no longer cared who overheard. "Then what were you about, Stuart? If you knew the man was not Mr. Collins, why did you address him as such?"

"'Collins' is what he called himself. I merely played along."

Again, his response staggered me. Was this honesty, then? I looked up at Stuart to find him gazing back at me, his brow creased and his green eyes intense with apparent concern. His right arm twitched slightly toward me as I looked at him, but he seemed to think better of the impulse and clasped his hands firmly behind his back, frowning slightly. "I don't understand you, Stuart. Why would you do such a thing? To what purpose?" Stuart exhaled sharply, smiling grimly as he shook his head. "Maisie, I am sadly unqualified. Or, more probably, you are exceptional. Whatever am I to do with you?" This last was delivered in a rueful tone, but Stuart's smile had lost some of its bitterness, and he reached for my hand as he spoke. I snatched it away from his reach. Indeed! Had he supposed I would be softened by such a cryptic speech? I could only think that he was toying with me again, and it rendered me quite furious. "Mr. Hill, unless you can explain your behaviour to my satisfaction, I have nothing more to say to you." He attempted to tip my chin up to meet his gaze but I swatted his hand away with all the energy of my indignation. It did not help that he met this violence with what could only be described as amusement and admiration, and had the cheek to say, "You are so very irresistible when you are in a temper." I had never slapped a man before, Addie, but I slapped his face with every bit of strength I could muster, and turned to leave him. He caught my arm and I turned back with every intention of slapping him again, but the look on his face stayed my hand. His expression was grave, yet behind the gravity I could just perceive an anguish so well concealed that it could only be genuine. What was Stuart to do with me? Indeed, what was I to do with him? Such a mixture of fury and compassion as I felt must surely have torn me apart and turned all the world topsy-turvy--and yet I remained whole, and the frozen earth beneath my boots was as solid as ever. Stuart released my arm and continued to gaze at me in silence--if he had any inkling of the involuntary sympathy I felt for him at that moment he gave no sign of it. All trace of levity had left him, and his voice was almost too low for me to hear.

"Am I to lose you over this, then?"

Addie, I am ashamed to tell you that I was nearly taken in again. Every instinct I possessed urged me to go to him, to comfort him, to assure him of my continued tender feelings for him. It was exceedingly troubling to discover the extent of the power he held over me, yet it was something much less ominous which checked my highly inappropriate impulses. I had not noticed his approach, absorbed in my own feelings as I had been, but at that moment I was addressed by a passerby who I assumed must have witnessed my assault on Stuart, and I felt my face flush with the heat of embarrassment. The man glanced at Stuart in a wary sort of way, planted himself firmly between us, and spoke earnestly to me. "Has this man harmed you? Shall I escort you home?" I was in no mood to explain myself to a stranger, and opened my lips to speak the words that would send him on his way, when my eyes fell on his face, and I recognized him. He was the very same cadet who had given me the clue to Stuart's undoing--but what coincidence was this? Before I could gather my thoughts, he spoke again, "Miss Bristow? I assure you that you are no longer in danger. If you would like to enter a complaint against this fellow, you have only to give the word." Stuart started at the sound of my name, and seemed to consider the cadet for the first time. After a brief study, however, he proceeded to ignore the cadet, and looked at me in wonder, "Do you know this man, Maisie?" Both men paused to wait for my response, and it was awkward indeed, but I answered that I did. The cadet looked very satisfied, and turned a challenging look on Stuart, who was more than half a head taller than himself. "I am Police Constable James Murphy," he said calmly, "and I advise you to depart at once." A great change was wrought upon Stuart--his face was suddenly alive with incredulity. He looked back and forth between us for a moment before focusing on me, and then asked, "Maisie, is it your wish for me to go?" It occurred to me that if I wished it, Stuart would go, and I was certain that my verbal expression of that wish would signify more to Stuart than it would to P.C. Murphy. Even more distressing was the sure knowledge that I did not want to send Stuart away. So strong was my wish for him to stay that I knew I must be merciless in my decision--the danger was too great. If I allowed myself the smallest modicum of indulgence, I felt sure I should never manage to detach myself from this man who thought it nothing to lie to me. It was not easy--it may in fact have been the most difficult thing I have ever been constrained to do--but I took the constable's offered arm and said, "Yes, Mr. Hill. I think it best you should go. P.C. Murphy will see me home." This accomplishment was not without cost. I could not bring myself to look at Stuart as I spoke, but I risked a glance as he replied. His expression was perfectly composed, his tone distant. He bowed slightly in my direction and said only, "I am at your service, Miss Bristow ," before turning away. I was ashamed that my own eyes had begun to fill with tears, and endeavored to quash the unwelcome emotion stirred up by the sight of Stuart's retreating form. P.C. Murphy seemed to sense that he was not privy to all that had passed between us, but was polite enough not to inquire as he walked me back to the mews. It occurred to me that he seemed to know the way, as I was no use at all and merely allowed him to guide me, and at length I asked him how he had come to find me. "Yes, that. I came to call on you, and your charming mother informed me that you were walking in the park." Dazed as I was by what had just occurred, this struck me as curious. "You ... came to call on me?" He smiled kindly and, as we were coming up on the Italian Gardens, asked if I would like to rest for a moment. I told him that I did, and he guided me to a bench with an excellent view of the fountains. "I must confess that I could not feel satisfied abandoning you in the state in which I saw you last, and here you are a week later, and you seem no better." I must have blushed--I surely felt self-conscious--for he added, "Forgive my familiarity. I should not have mentioned it. It is only that concern for you has guided my actions in coming to call on you--I had wished to find you in better spirits. I hope you are not still upset over the news of your friend? Indeed, I had meant to comfort you by it." I knew I should have felt gratitude toward him, Addie, and I think I did, but that most noble emotion was so greatly eclipsed by the anxiety I felt in regard to Stuart that I was hardly in any condition to do it justice. I said nothing, but smiled weakly at him, and he continued, "The ... gentleman ... who just left us--I have seen him on more than one occasion in Victoria Street. I wish I had taken more notice of him, as he is obviously a person to be monitored. I hope he did not offend you too grievously?" As little as I wished to speak of it, I could not deny the truth of what he suggested, and I steeled myself enough to say, "I am afraid that he did. I have just ended our engagement to be married." P.C. Murphy was understandably taken aback, but did not press for particulars. He merely expressed his regrets for my disappointment, and, as I had risen, offered me his arm and accompanied me home. I did not truly wish it, but I thought it courtesy to ask him to stay for tea. He cordially declined, however, claiming a previous engagement, and expressed the hope that he might be extended another such invitation in future. I was not sorry to see him go, and, ignoring Mum's attempts to question me, fled to my room and remained there until the following morning. I would likely not have roused even then, but for Mum's insistence that a letter had been delivered for me, and her refusal to give it into my possession unless I would wash and dress and come downstairs. Accordingly, I succumbed to her wishes. When she was satisfied she placed the letter on the table before me and excused herself from the dining room. I had hoped wildly,wrongly, that it might be from Stuart, and I was not disappointed.

My dear Maisie,

I am deeply sorry for my light treatment of your concerns yesterday. I was so relieved to discover the cause of your rejection, and to realise that it was of no import, that I allowed myself to approach cheerfulness too soon. Please forgive this error on my part, and know that it was only the sudden removal of the heavy burden of care which I had borne these past seven days which occasioned it. I ought to have exercised better judgment, and given more thought to the fact that your mind was not yet relieved of worry.

When you told me to go ... I admit I was, once again, despondent. It seemed to me that your desire for my absence might be a permanent condition of your heart, and this was not a welcome thought. I realise that I am not yet clear of the danger of losing you. Therefore, I approach what I must tell you next with great trepidation. You asked for a satisfactory explanation of my deception regarding the man whom I led you to believe was Joseph Collins. Maisie, I cannot give it. I can assure you that my actions were necessary and prudent, and that the consequence of my being constrained to deceive you was not entered into lightly on my part. You will remember my plea for forgiveness that very day, and you must believe it was in earnest. However, I can explain no further, and I must ask you to abandon the subject from here and forward. It is not within my power to satisfy you in this matter, and I beg you to grant me grace and forbearance.

If you can find it within your capacity to trust me, Maisie, please make it known. For my part, I shall no longer attempt to displease you with my presence unless you ask for it.

I am, respectfully,
Your obedient servant,

Stuart Hill

Addie, how I wish for your advice and sympathy! It has been a week already since I received this missive, and I have yet to make a reply. I have explained my peculiar weakness when it comes to Stuart, and I very much fear it might take precedence in light of this most eloquent petition for pardon. Why cannot it be simple? My heart is in favor of forgiveness, but my intelligence begs my heart to please refrain from such utter foolishness. How is it that affection for a man can lead to such hostilities within myself? Write with all haste!

Sincerely,

Maitland Bristow

14 Bathurst Mews
London

Go on to the next letter, Letter 37 - Chez Rousseau

Letter 35 - Marché aux Fleurs

2009-12-07T00:14:00.013Z

Miss Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London

10 April 1903

Dearest Maisie,

My dearest of friends, how can I be of any consolation to you? I simply cannot fathom, any more than you can, a reason for Stuart's deceit. I will not feign to know the tribulations of your heart. My words seem of little use at a time such as this. If only I were there with you. You seem so certain all is lost, but if I know Stuart Hill, he shall not give you up so easily. Perhaps there is some tiny shred of goodness to be discovered amidst this madness. If there is anything at all that I can do for you, simply name it, Maisie .... I am happy that at the least you were able to spend some time with Peter. I am glad he is in good health.

I do have some news of my own to relay. It is rather disappointing, to say the least. Naturally, as all unpleasant things seem to begin, this bit of news pertains to the ever-present Vaughn Rousseau. This morning was the day I have dreaded ever since my return from Montparnasse--the day my conniving French tutor would return. The subject of my daily disgust and angst arrived precisely on the hour in the library. Madame Fifi came to alert me to his presence, but she must have been aware that I had been keenly listening for him all the morning; she did not press me to hurry as she usually does. I do not doubt that word of his lie has spread throughout the ranks of the household. I could feel my cheeks flush red as his name passed Madame Fifi's lips, and that rather ill feeling that Vaughn always seems to illicit accompanied me down the stairs as a myriad of indignant lectures sprang up in my mind--any of which I would have been happy to unleash upon him. I entered the room and there he was, sitting and casually thumbing through a book he had retrieved from the shelf. I sat down. I felt more uneasy than angry now; I had been so sure he would be fumbling over some poorly recited apology for his behaviour in Montparnasse. But there he sat, flipping through the pages of this book, paying me no mind at all. I say, Maisie, I was certainly not going to initiate conversation with the man! I crossed my ankles and folded my hands in my lap. Rousseau finally spoke, albeit without looking up from his book, "Good morning Adeline. I trust you have befittingly recovered from your drunken tryst in Montparnasse?" I was quite completely abashed--but the gullibility of my mind (which I am sure he had counted upon) did not outlast the realisation that Vaughn was only pointing out my indiscretions to detract attention from his own. I responded in my most flippant tone, "Well, I must admit, 'twas difficult to recover from my faux pas without the arms of my dear husband to help guide me." Vaughn put down his reading at once. He looked directly at me with fierceness, "Adeline, do you pretend not to understand?" Maisie, I assure you there was no pretense on my part. I felt altogether lost. I looked about the room, hoping to observe some obvious clue I had been neglecting, and stammered, "Vaughn--I do not know what--" He interrupted, his grimace hardening as he rose from his seat behind the desk. Spittle flew from his mouth as he chastised me, "You innocent young girl. Eduard never cared one whit for you." He was leaning in over the desk now, "I was the one who ransomed you from your captor." I felt suddenly weak, and subdued by this news . . . Vaughn saved me? He bent double to retrieve a bouquet of wretched lilies that had been at his feet. Instantly transformed, he proffered them to me and said softly, his voice cracking at the sudden shift, "I procured these on the Place Louis Lépine. You found it charming, did you not, when you went in search of purple irises for Madame Fifette?" He smiled with satisfaction as I silently took the lilies and began to restore order to the items on the desk that had been disheveled during his fit. I began to feel feverish, and quite physically unwell. Madame Fifi entered, and, upon measuring me with a shrewd look, said, "Is everything well? I heard you raise your voice to Miss Westley." She fixed an accusing gaze on Mr. Rousseau, and he returned it with one of haughty indignation, replying in a prideful tone, "Well, you know how difficult Miss Westley can be. She becomes so easily confused by the simplest of concepts." I stood and turned to Madame Fifi before she could leave, "Madame, please--I am not well--please reschedule Mr. Rousseau for another time. I cannot continue my lesson in this state." Madame Fifi turned to Vaughn with evident satisfaction, "Well, you heard mademoiselle--off you go." Madame Fifi shunted him to the door, notwithstanding his bargaining to stay. I went immediately to my bed. The idea that Vaughn was my saviour was sour in my stomach. I closed my eyes, trying to ward off the intruding vision of Vaughn saving my life, when the most peculiar oddity struck me: Vaughn had asked how I liked Place Louis Lépine--only, I have never been to the flower market to buy irises for Madame Fifi, or for any other reason . . . or had I? That moment, an image flickered in my recollection: I could see tiers of various perennials around me. There were cabbage roses, irises and gerberas in splendid yellows, pinks and scarlets. The smell of rosemary bushes and lavender perfumed the air. I could hear the barges trolling through fog over the Seine--perhaps I was on the Ile Saint Louis--no--it must have been the Ile de la Cité--I could see the two towers of Notre Dame. Indeed, I carried in my arms a handsome bunch of violet flowers. Through the thick air, a tall man approached me. He possessed a fine but worried countenance, his eyebrows drawing together, he asked me if I would assist him in finding a lost boy's mother. He explained that the boy was but five or six years of age, and quite afraid. I remember agreeing most immediately, and following the man with great urgency as he led me to the alley just behind the flower peddlers. He paused, and my eyes searched the empty alleyway for the child. I walked a few paces, my footsteps echoing in the damp street; the boy was nowhere to be seen. I turned to ask the man, "The boy--has he run off?" The stranger, saying nothing, walked slowly toward me, pulling a dampened handkerchief from his breast pocket. At that moment I knew I had made a grave mistake. The clatter of an approaching carriage ceased at the entrance to the alley. An uncultured voice called out, "Shapcott! We haven't got time for you to play a game of loll tongue! Do her down and let's hook it!" I looked up and into the man's dark eyes as he walked straight toward me, and then there was a flood of realisation--I knew him. It was the man my father brought home for me to wed. He was not immediately recognisable to me without the beard that had seemed to cover much of his face--but the black eyes were burned into my memory. I opened my mouth to scream--but the man seized me and covered my nose and mouth with the damp handkerchief. I remember the flowers falling onto the cobblestone street, and then there was nothing.

I can only wish for these vile recollections to stop, Maisie. It profits me nothing to relive these events, and I had much rather put it all behind me. I do feel rather sheepish that I was unable to compose myself long enough to require Vaughn to answer some questions about the ordeal. However did he find me? What's more, why did he not deliver me to Mr. Westley himself? I do not relish seeing him, but I must endure if I am to get the answers to my questions. Perhaps I should be grateful--I have wished these many nights to know the identity of my rescuer--and yet I cannot repress the profound disappointment of this discovery, Maisie. The thought of my rescuer had given me something of hope to cling to, but to know it was only Rousseau ... I feel as if I had bitten into an apple and found it to be made of wax. But all of this is trifling, and pales in comparison to your dashed dreams of a life with Stuart. I have no doubt you will have much more news for me in your next letter. Do take care. You are in my thoughts, always.

Yours,

Adeline Westley

23 rue Saint Paul
Paris

Go on to the next letter, Letter 36 - Sense and Sensibility

Diary Entry 34a - Christmas Past

2009-11-30T00:28:00.014Z

I made my way to Abney Park to bury my father on a crisp, wintry Sunday. The coachman lead the hearse and four plumed horses away from the churchyard as I followed close behind. The bell tolled from the belfry as the undertaker approached me, handing me a note of indebtedness for the preparation of the body. 'Twas Christmas day, and even more than the guilt I felt for my absence these past three years, I felt numb from disappointment, as I was the only person in attendance. I should have know they would not come. I tried to divert my eyes from the emptiness surrounding me as the clergyman continued. The grave diggers had dug a fine trench, befitting my father's tall stature. Two men began to raise the stone as they lowered the lead coffin down beneath the frozen earth. The headstone's epitaph read:

In Memory of
Henry A. Westley
Who departed this life
December 20, 1887
Aged 62 years
~
From whence I came, thereto I go
~
Husband to Mary Elizabeth Murray, Father to Charles & Walter

The snow began to fall and I remained there alone at my father's grave. The inhabitants of Stoke Newington had no doubt begun their festivities. I could hear the faint carols trolling from St. Mary's, and I longed for Elyse to be again at my side. How father had adored her! Her absence left a drafty emptiness, and the little one . . . she evokes a pain I cannot altogether bear. I could hear her laughing as if she were close enough to embrace. I started when I felt two small arms suddenly about me, and there she was. "Adeline!" My eyes strained through the coming tears as I embraced the child. I looked out into the distance--'twas a vision--my Elyse! My heart thundered inside my chest as she waded through the drifts of snow. Had it really been three years? She extended a gloved hand to greet me, "Hello, Charles . . . I thought it only fitting for Addie to visit her grandfather's grave." She looked as angelic as the memory I had kept of her, but the beauty faded from my mind as I inquired, "Is Walter with you?" She replied, "No--he would not come." I gazed back down at the little girl; my heart twisted as the unwelcome questions flooded into my heart and mind. My desire to make amends was censured by reason. I asked, "How long do you intend to persecute me, Elyse? Be truthful! Am I the father of this child?" Her expression was closed and distant. She replied only, "We are leaving." She fetched Adeline, taking her by the hand and as she passed me, prompted, "Adeline, say goodbye to your . . . uncle." I paused to temper my growing enmity, clutching at Elyse's arm and turning her towards me, "You cannot do this to me--and you cannot do it to Walter." Her face softened for the briefest of moments, then she pulled out of my grip and turned away without a word.

I watched as they left the cemetery, then began my own trek back to my father's house. Waiting for me upon the front steps was a large package, wrapped in brown paper. There was no note, but I soon realized who had left it for me. I removed the wrappings immediately, to find a carefully rendered portrait of a small girl--the same small girl who had recently been borne away from me by her cold and beautiful mother. There was no welcome upon my entrance into the house, it seemed more vacant and unfriendly than when I had left it last. I started a fire and settled into my father's chair, propping the painting on a chair opposite my place so that I could gaze on it. Just as I was nodding off to sleep, there was a knock at the door. I roused to answer it, but this unexpected guest let herself in. In the doorway stood a lovely young woman. She introduced herself in a strong French accent, "You must be Charles. I have heard so much about you--please forgive me for not attending the funeral--my mother was a dear friend of Henry's and sent me to tend to the household duties so that you may have sufficient time to mourn. My name is Fifette." I welcomed her inside, and bade her choose any room she would like for her keeping. I imagine it was not difficult to detect my sadness, as she invited me to tell her more about my father. I am afraid I could not keep my troubles from this enjoyable woman, and did confide in her all that burdened me. She, in turn, told me of Paris--and how intriguing it did seem to me! I was seized with a desire to start over. My spirit was indeed uplifted by the fortuitous gift of her kindness.

As this most unholy of Christmases comes to a close, I shall leave on these pages a resolve to begin anew. Mademoiselle Fifette fetched me some brandy, and I felt that no other Christmas gift could have been so fine. Tonight, I raise a glass to tomorrow . . . and to Paris.

(We would like to extend special thanks to David Hunter for originally featuring this Special Edition Letter on his blog.)

Go on to the next letter, Letter 35 - Marché aux Fleurs

Letter 34 - A Walk in the Park

2009-11-25T03:07:00.004Z

Miss Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris

1 April 1903

Dearest Addie,

I am sorry for your suffering, darling, but know that Mr. Steichen has only proven himself less worthy of you than I had once believed. If you have been made a fool by the influence of absinthe, I am double the fool due to my own naïveté. I cannot express the heaviness of my heart. It is quite broken, Addie. Mum says I shall recover, and learn to love again--but I shan't. I am ruined for romance. There will be no wedding, no little children with Stuart's green eyes, no future which I consider at all worthy of description. And although there is an irritating, logical voice which begs me to realize that my mood is highly melodramatic and ridiculous, I refuse to give it heed. I feel as if the very core of my existence, and all that I knew to be true with my whole heart, has been torn from me--and without that centre I am adrift, having nothing to anchor me to my former existence. I am utterly wretched, but I must commit it to paper. I want you to know, and I want to convince myself, that what I have done is right.

The chain of events which has left me in this state of despair began when I received a summons to New Scotland Yard. I knew it must be in regards to my former visit there, and assumed that the coroner involved must require further information about Mr. Collins. It would not be a pleasant errand, I reflected, but the weather was unusually fine for the season--cold but clear--and I determined to enjoy the outing. I well remember the short but pleasant walk to Lancaster Gate, the last time I can recall being unreservedly happy. Upon arrival I gave my name at the desk, and was only required to wait a few moments before a young man I recognized appeared and offered me his arm. "Ah, yes--Miss Bristow. This way, please." It was the same cadet who had escorted me to the mortuary when last I was at Scotland Yard. He very courteously guided me to a small office down the hall from the reception area and bade me sit, whereupon I fixed him with a gaze that must surely have displayed my curiosity at his invitation.

"It is quite natural that you should wonder at my invitation," he began, echoing my thoughts," and I must allow that in most cases, I would have thought it sufficient to send correspondence." He paused, and seemed to consider his next words carefully. "I ... had thought it kindness to inform you that Joseph Collins II of Yorkshire is indeed deceased, but that he was not the man whom you identified on 14 February of this year. Upon further inquiry, our sources have verified that Joseph Collins II was killed six months ago in a motor-car accident in France. His remains were duly returned to his kin in Yorkshire, and his body is interred there with those other deceased members of his family." Having said all this, he looked me over with a polite solicitousness, as if to ascertain my state of mind at this revelation. When I did not speak, as I was, indeed, quite without the power just then, he continued, "As you were a friend, and are a lady, I felt it proper for you to be aware of the true circumstances of his death, so as not to despoil his character."

I am sure I was discourteous, Addie, for my mind had been set to racing at this extraordinary news. All my thoughts turned toward Stuart, and the question of how this misunderstanding could have come about. So absorbed was I in this line of thinking, that it was necessary for the cadet to speak my name more than once, I suspect, before I became aware of it and found my tongue. I made all the courtesies the situation required, I hope, and asked to be shown out, that I might spend some time alone. The cadet, who it transpired was called James Murphy, showed me every kindness, and perhaps more concern than I deserved. He walked me to the street, apologizing for upsetting me all the way, and seemed almost to regret having summoned me to Scotland Yard at all. I was quite keen to be rid of him, Addie, for his presence required me to divide my attentions--attentions which I desired to put fully to use in tumbling to the bottom of this most puzzling circumstance. Mr. Murphy, however, seemed equally as keen to assure himself that he had not caused me undue distress, so I was obliged to convince him of it. At last I was free, Addie--Mr. Murphy had, at my vehement request, returned to his duties, and I was alone on Victoria Enbankment. I began to walk, not particularly mindful of my direction, and to think fiercely. Joseph Collins was six months dead, so he could not have been the man who accosted Stuart at Portobello Market. Perhaps he only looked a great deal like the real Joseph Collins--"a bit of a ringer," as Stuart had said ... only that would not explain why the man had called himself Collins, or how he was acquainted with Stuart if not from time spent together at Oxford. Had this man, for reasons best known to himself, succeeded in deceiving Stuart? Was it all some sort of jest? Perhaps Joseph Collins had a twin, an unkind twin, who wished to mock Stuart in some way? Was it Joseph Collins' brother who had perished so ignominiously on Wapping Wall? No, that did not suit, either. Whatever investigations the police had undertaken, if Joseph Collins had a twin, and if that twin had been unaccounted for at the time, surely they would have known him for the dead man. The only other conclusion became clear to me at once, and it was not a pleasant one. Perhaps Stuart was not the object of this jest ... perhaps I was the one to have been fooled. If the man was not Collins, and if Stuart knew this, what other reason would the two of them have had to engage in the charade? And yet, Stuart had seemed so genuinely upset by the encounter--it seemed folly to think he had a hand in something that had caused him such real pain. Unless ... unless the pain was not real. Was it possible, could it be that Stuart had engineered the entire scene for my benefit--the unkindness and the repentance both? And to what end? But if he had, Addie, if he had ... the fraudulent Mr. Collins was not the only unlucky one for having been murdered. Stuart was nearly as unfortunate, as the death of his erstwhile colleague had, in a roundabout manner, alerted me to the duplicity of Stuart's own actions. No wonder he had not wished to identify the man! He knew full well that the man had not been Collins, and identifying him otherwise would likely have resulted in my coming to the very same conclusions I was now constrained to accept: that Stuart had not been honest with me, that he had some mysterious agenda which required that I be deceived, and my emotions toyed with. I was quite incensed, Addie. My anger and shame were so acute, in fact, that I did not notice my own brother approaching me until he had blocked my path.

"What are you doing here, Maisie? If you've come to visit, I haven't time for it today. You should have made an appointment. At any rate, hadn't you ought to be at home on such a cold day?"

It took a moment for the meaning of his words to penetrate my outraged mood. "Yes, of course, Peter--you live round here, don't you?" Amusement immediately replaced Peter's brisk manner, and his mouth quirked into a familiar expression of brotherly indulgence. "Indeed, Maisie. But may I assume you did not come this long way merely to confirm that fact?" I did not want to talk to Peter, Addie, I did not want to talk to any person at that moment, nor did I wish to admit my doubts about Stuart to Peter, who had been striving to discredit his friend since the announcement of our engagement, and who might very well be correct in all his unwelcome criticisms. I was angry with Stuart, so angry I felt light-headed, and yet I did not wish to hear him abused further at that moment. I had a great suspicion that I would not be able to endure it. But here was Peter, and I could hardly ignore him. Indeed, I had not seen him at all for some time. "No, I came ... I was on an errand for Mum." Peter's amusement seemed to double as he said, "Here?" he indicated the Thames with a sweeping motion of his arm, "I suppose she engaged you to angle up a few trout for supper? You needn't be self-conscious, Maisie, I will admit that I have missed seeing you, as well." Here was warmth which I had not received from Peter in some time. It was disarming, indeed, Addie, to find him so suddenly transformed into the Peter of old. Torn as I was, I found myself inclined to stay with Peter a while, and bask in this unexpected ray of affection and good humor. "You ... you are busy, then?" I ventured. He glanced behind him, opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again and offered me his arm. "Let us walk," he said.

And so nearly half an hour was passed most pleasantly, as we walked along the Thames and amused ourselves by guessing the errands of the various passersby. Peter was kind enough to ask after Stuart, but this only served to remind me of my recent conclusions concerning him. "I have another question for you, Peter, about Joseph Collins." "Do you, indeed?" returned Peter, "And what is it that you crave to know today?" "Well," I began, "Ever since Stuart mentioned him to me, I have been wondering if he had ginger hair. I knew three Collins girls at Cheltenham, all of them ginger." It was good to hear Peter laugh without bitterness. "Maisie, I had almost forgotten what a source of amusement you are. But to answer your question--no, Collins was quite as dark as Stuart. The two of them were very alike in appearance, in fact. I wonder at your questions, Maisie. Has Stuart spoken of Collins often?" It was a struggle to remain in such a state of mind as to be able to answer Peter's question naturally, for it seemed to me that I had been made quite a fool. The man I had met at the Market had not looked a thing like Stuart, excepting perhaps in similarity of height, and certainly could not be called dark of hair. I must have maintained a passable composure, however, as Peter did not seem to think anything amiss when I answered, "No, not often. It's only, I had thought--as he and Stuart were such great chums at school--perhaps it would be wise to invite him to the ... the wedding." It truly grieved me to speak of it, Addie, for I very much felt that there would be no such wedding. My own feelings were somewhat eclipsed, however, by the cloud that stole across Peter's countenance at my words. He ceased to walk, and turned to look at me, seeming to consider my mood, then began gently, "Did Stuart never tell you, Maisie, that Collins was killed some months ago?" This news was not completely unexpected, Addie, for I did not really doubt the thoroughness of the Metropolitan Police, and yet it hurt all the same, to have this information corroborated. When I did not immediately reply, Peter continued, "Perhaps not. It was a great blow to Stuart, I know, for I conveyed the news to him myself. I suppose he had rather not speak of it." And then I quite lost my ability to remain on my feet, for here was proof--proof of the lie, and of Stuart's disingenuousness. Stuart had known that his friend was dead long before we supposedly met him at Portobello Market, there was no further excuse to be made, and no amount of explanation could sufficiently account for his deceit. Thankfully, Peter took my swoon as a reaction to the news of Collins' unfortunate demise at such a young age, and helped me to a low stone wall to sit for a moment and regain my composure. The pleasure of my walk with Peter was ended, but I attempted, as well as I could in my present state, to express to my brother my happiness at the change in him, and my enjoyment of the time spent together which reminded me so much of our former closeness and camaraderie. This, it became apparent, was the wrong thing to have said. Peter seemed to recall himself instantly, and was much cooler as he walked me to Westminster Bridge and said his farewells. I waited long enough to ensure Peter would be out of sight, then exited the station and began the walk home through the parks.

Whether it was fortune or curse, I am sure I do not know, but who do you think I met halfway across Green Park? It was Stuart himself, out riding with his father, and it was more than I could bear. To see him, and to know of his betrayal--to be in the presence of Sir John and so many cheerful strangers who were about their leisure in the park, enjoying the rare sunshine--I could not speak to Stuart as I wished, nor could I pretend all was well. I thought I might die from the disparity between my wild desire to speak my mind and my more cautious inclination to stay on the side of propriety. He did not see me at first, and my eyes filled with angry tears as I watched him from some little distance. I had stopped short in the middle of the path, and was scrubbing the moisture from my eyes rather violently, when his eyes fell on me. The look of genuine delight on his face when he discerned me, Addie, caused me more pain than had the shock of coming upon him so suddenly. He had no right to look so overjoyed at my appearance! Stuart spoke a few words to his father, who nodded and continued on across the park, then urged his own fine Morgan gelding toward me. At least I would be spared from having this interview witnessed by Sir John, but it was a cold comfort. Stuart dismounted immediately upon reaching my side, transferred his reins to his left hand, and took my hand in his right. He peered down into my face with that same look of utter delight for the briefest of moments before his brow creased with concern. "What is it, Maisie? What's happened?" I could not meet his gaze, Addie. I kept my eyes on the path and merely asked, "Shall we walk?" Stuart acquiesced, and I took the arm he offered with a mixture of reluctance and gratitude. It was utterly disgusting how glad I was to feel the warmth of him at my side, the strength of his supporting arm--and unbearably bittersweet, knowing it would be the last time. I could not keep the tears from coming, and Stuart offered silent glances and gestures of consolation when it became apparent to him that I did not wish to speak. At length this very sincerity of kindness on Stuart's part was more than I could endure. After all, hadn't he put on remorse the day he had deceived me? Hadn't his feigned sincerity fooled me rather too thoroughly? As we approached Grosvenor Crescent, I stopped short and told Stuart he would please me best by going home, I would rather walk the rest of the way to the mews unaccompanied. Had I not been in such exquisite pain myself, and gripped by a sudden spark of righteous anger, I might have experienced more regret at the injury these words seemed to inflict on Stuart. "Come home with me, Maisie, Mrs. White will get you tea, you musn't be alone in this state--I entreat you!" I wrenched my arm away from his and finally raised my face to meet his eyes. "Do not entreat me, Mr. Hill. You have used me, and I am done with you." I was surprised at the hardness of my own voice, which seemed to ring in the clear air like a hollow bell. My face was still wet with tears, but they had ceased flowing. Addie, my heart felt as cold as my voice, and I turned my back on Stuart and strode away toward Hyde Park. I did not look back, but I could not stop my ears, and I listened for the gelding's hooves moving on the path, or the jingle of his harnesses, in vain.

I am sure I shall be called upon to speak to Stuart soon, and I dread the prospect. I feel that I shall never be cheerful again. Please do not delay in writing.

Sincerely,

Maitland Bristow

14 Bathurst Mews
London

Go on to the next section, Diary Entry 34a - Christmas Past

Letter 33 - Absinthe

2009-11-23T00:31:00.003Z

Miss Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London

22 March 1903

Dearest Maisie,

I am a bit downtrodden these past days. I will relay all of it to you, but first I must tell you, I am in complete agreement with your decision to go to the authorities to identify Collins. I can only imagine his mother's bereavement. I am saddened that you felt you could not tell Stuart your intentions; Maisie, what does this speak of your relationship, that you are keeping things from one another? Really, though, it is none of my concern--I am very much looking forward to October and all the wedding festivities. I cannot help but worry about Stuart's intentions, though.

As you might have imagined, I wasted no time making my way back to Montparnasse since my last letter. I took a carriage as far as Rue de Rennes and asked the driver to let me out on the corner. I walked the rest of the way to Café du Dôme, so that the driver would not know where I had gone, should Mr. Westley question him. The streets were alive with people, and the Café was crowded with the young and ambitious. The chatter and laughter in the air painted a scene much different from that of the quiet evening I had come with Vaughn. I peered around at the other patrons in the foyer in hopes of finding Van Hecke. And there he sat, in the back corner; this time with two other men. My heart was racing so that I nearly escaped back the way I had come. I had to assemble all my courage not to leave straightaway, but Van Hecke had already spotted me, so I pressed forward with my plan. I approached the back of the room, making my way around the bustling waiters. Van Hecke stopped pouring his cup of absinthe to lean over and mutter something to his associates--no doubt concerning my impending arrival. The three of them stopped what they had been doing to give me their full attention. Maisie, I had felt such dire need to return to the Café that I hadn't prepared my words, and felt suddenly quite exposed and foolish for coming. I smiled nervously and began, "Good evening gentlemen. Van Hecke, is it?" He smiled brightly and said, "Indeed." He turned towards the fellow he had been with before and introduced him, "Frederik Jakobsen," he turned to his right, "Gregor Hahn--let me introduce Mrs. Adeline Rousseau." My stomach turned. I lost my concentration momentarily, and found myself overwhelmed with loathing at the very thought of being wed to Vaughn Rousseau. Van Hecke spoke, "Please join us, Mrs. Rousseau." The men stood and Mr. Hahn pulled out my chair and bade me sit. Fraught with nervousness, I sat down and attempted to explain, "Gentlemen, I am not Mr. Rousseau's wife." Van Hecke resumed pouring his absinthe over a cube of sugar on a filigreed silver spoon. He raised his brow, "Perhaps you can help us to understand why Rousseau would say such a thing." I realised at that moment how very little I knew of all the sordid details of the goings on between these men and my French tutor. Acting on pure impulse, I decided not to smear Vaughn's name as I would have liked, liar though he is. I replied, "Vaughn is a difficult man, to be sure. I presume he was simply projecting his future wishes, as he may not be sure when you fellows might meet again." I made a great effort to put on a pleasant expression. Van Hecke asked, "You are engaged to be married, then?" Rather timidly I answered, "No, not exactly." This time Mr. Jakobsen questioned me, with a bit more amusement in his tone, "Do not keep us in such suspense! We are all anxious to hear how Mr. Rousseau was able to snare such a lady!" I'm quite sure my cheeks were flushed red with embarrassment. "Well, that is just it--he hasn't. I am not quite sure why Mr. Rousseau said what he did, but the fact remains that I am not married to anyone. My name is, in all actuality, Adeline Westley." Van Hecke picked up the absinthe in front of him and placed it in front of me. "Ah. So this is the elusive Miss Westley. Pity Steichen never brought you round. Have a drink with us, dear, and we shall be yours to converse with for the entirety of the night."

I am not sure what you may know about absinthe, Maisie, but in Paris it is quite fashionable. I will say that there are some that vilify the drink as being dangerous--malignant to one's own sanity even. And yet, if I did not drink . . . . I felt I was at a crossroads; here before me was this green, milky libation ... and it seemed to me that it was the essential key to my finding Eduard ... and yet how much was I willing to lose to find the answers? I will not argue should you think less of me, but I could not think on anything apart from inducing these men to talk. I picked up the heavy crystal glass and began to drink. It ignited my throat on the way down, tasting of anise--and nothing could have enchanted these fellows more than to see my eyes grow wide as I drank. Van Hecke called out to the waiter, "Another carafe, please! And bring the Suisse this time!" I am not without some good sense though, Maisie, for I limited myself to just the one glass before me, as Van Hecke and his cohorts drank the absinthe without restraint. After an hour of musing with these fellows, I turned to Mr. Hahn, who had remained the more silent of the three, and asked as nonchalantly as I could, "Do you know where I might find Steichen these days?" He adjusted his shirt cuffs, looking uneasy and said, "Forgive my asking, jonge dame, but we are not ignorant of the way Steichen ... conducted himself. Why are you so eager to find him?" I was unprepared for such candour, and was unsure how to defend myself. I replied, "Eduard made some grievous mistakes, yes--but should that mean he is denied the means to earn redemption?" Mr. Hahn cast his eyes away, "I am curious to know what Steichen has done to gain absolution in your eyes." Van Hecke leaned in across the table top and began to speak before I could answer, "Steichen has a brilliant mind. It is a crime he absconded." My spirit sank as I recalled the stinging pain of Eduard's betrayal.

As the evening trolled on, I discovered a wealth of information--none of which was helpful to my cause, of course. Van Hecke is Belgian and Mr. Hahn, Dutch; the both of them are painters. Mr. Jakobsen is German and a photographer, like Eduard. These fellows were good company, but as the hours passed I began to notice the inevitable effects of the absinthe, and was rather concerned with revealing more than I ought. The dim lights of the cafe began to cause my head to ache. Maisie, I was not myself. Without forethought or a measure of restraint I asked Mr. Van Hecke why it is he loathes Mr. Rousseau. His did not hesitate to answer, "Rousseau is an ass. We tolerated him for a time because Steichen seemed to like him. Rousseau lost what little grace we had granted him when he chose to make a fool of himself for all to see." This was intriguing, Maisie. "What do you mean?" I asked. Van Hecke looked around at the others as if to invite sympathy as he explained, "He delivered a tongue-lashing that would have shamed a nun. I mean no disrespect, but a man has not the right to chastise another man about his choice in women--and none of us would put up with him after that." It took a moment for the scene he had just described to materialize in my head. "You mean to say, Vaughn scolded Eduard? For ... for leaving me?" "That is precisely what I mean--it was here in the Café. He told Steichen to--what was it again, Frederik?" Jakobsen cleared his throat, "I believe it was to 'crawl on his belly back to whence he came.'" Mr. Hahn interjected, "But that wasn't the worst of it--he told Steichen that you were in love with him." I was stunned and completely rapt, sure I was soon to hear the reason for Eduard's return. "What did Eduard say?" I asked. Van Hecke replied, "He called Rousseau a liar, and--" here he stopped short. The men consulted each other with guilty glances. Van Hecke spoke first, "The rest is inconsequential, mademoiselle." I was irate, "I may be a woman, but I am not witless. You needn't protect me from whatever it is." When none of them seemed on the point of speaking, I abandoned attempts at decorum and shouted at him, "Tell me the rest!" Van Hecke paused, then went on, "the two men got into a brawl, Steichen came out victorious, and that was the last we had seen of Rousseau until the night he arrived with you." Was I being taken for a fool? I pressed, "No--what was it that Steichen said after he called Vauhn a liar?" Van Hecke looked thoughtful, and said soothingly, "Now, Mademoiselle Westley--" I wouldn't have any of it, Maisie, I was determined to know, but before I could more than open my mouth to command him to tell me, Jakobsen said what Van Hecke would not: "Steichen said Rousseau could have you if he liked, that he was finished." I could feel my heart crumble to dust inside my chest. My eyes filled with tears, wetting my face as they ran down my cheeks onto my neck. Van Hecke took my hand and said, "Cherie, none of this matters--Steichen is gone--we haven't seen him for months." I withdrew my hand and began to stutter, "Y-you are wrong--he has returned--he saved my life." Mr. Hahn glanced at his watch and said to Van Hecke, "Let's get her to a carriage. She said she is staying at the Westley estate, up north." I began to protest, but already the three of them were standing to help me to the door. I wrenched myself free of their grip and said, "I am quite capable of walking unsupported." This was quite far from the truth, though, Maisie. As I stumbled out to the door I spied a man sitting alone in a darkened corner of the bistro. He was wearing a homburg hat, Maisie ... it was Eduard. I ran to him, he rose to catch me in his arms, and I kissed his face, murmuring with all the energy of my passion and the abandon imparted by the absinthe, "Eduard, you came back and all is forgiven--" But an unfamiliar voice assaulted my ears as the man stepped into the light, "Mademoiselle, I am sure you are mistaken ... " He gently removed my arms from around his neck, and, gazing up at this complete stranger, I could see I had indeed made a grave mistake. The man I had just unduly molested steadied me. Van Hecke and Mr. Jakobsen came to my aide and apologized on my behalf, as I was unable to speak. They fetched me a carriage, instructing the driver to take me home. I felt quite ill, and fell into a nightmarish sort of sleep on the brief drive to the estate. I could barely move or speak, but I was aware enough to feel the driver trying unsuccessfully to arouse me from my trance. To my complete mortification, the driver rang for Mr. Westley to fetch his fare. My memory is foggy, but I remember quite clearly the glare of anger that was in Mr. Westley's eyes as he escorted me upstairs and to my bedroom. He instructed my hand maid to clean me up and put me to bed as if I were a child of two.

I suppose I should listen to your advice more often, Maisie. Eduard has not returned--and my imagination and wishful thinking has once more gotten the better of me. And now it is as if Eduard has left me all over again. My only comfort in all this is that, although it was not Eduard, someone came to my aide that night; someone must care for my safety. Do cheer me up, Maisie. I shall ask Mr. Westley if he will grant me permission to attend your wedding, but not for a few weeks yet--I shan't be given much license by my uncle after my most disgraceful arrival home from Montparnasse. At least, not until time has softened the outrageousness of my indiscretions. Will your mother be making your dress? Do write soon, dearest.

Yours,

Adeline Westley

23 rue Saint Paul
Paris

Go on to the next letter, Letter 34 - A Walk in the Park

Letter 32 - Identification

2009-11-20T01:27:00.010Z

Miss Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris

10 March 1903

Dearest Addie,

Do you really think it could have been Eduard who saved you from that horrible man? Indeed, the idea is quite romantic! I had forgotten you said that Eduard wore a homburg--did he wear it often? But again, Addie, the homburg is quite popular this year. I can't claim to have a strong conviction of it having been Eduard, but I should hardly look to myself for an answer in this particular. You are the one who knows him. The most convincing evidence, to my mind, is the fact that whoever rescued you must either have been involved in the scheme, or have been watching you closely. Eduard, had he indeed returned to France in hopes of gaining your forgiveness, would very likely have been keen to find you alone, so as to have his chance to speak his mind and ask for your forbearance in the matter of his previous behaviour and abandonment--knowing, of course, that you would have refused to have admitted him into your presence had he called at your uncle's estate. So placed, he would have been well set up to observe your abduction, find you and release you from your imprisonment. I did not like to ask before, Addie, but I am curious ... what became of the man who committed this crime against you? Was he apprehended, or even discovered? Did the Frenchman chase him away? Do not answer, dearest, if it is too unpleasant to think on--but I should feel much better knowing the brute was safely locked up and quite without opportunity to steal you away again. Do not let it upset you, Addie, if he has escaped justice--I am sure your uncle has taken rigorous measures to ensure your future safety, having once realized how vulnerable you were. All the same, I hope the fellow is caught and punished within an inch of his wretched life, and left to mull over his heinous acts during a lifetime of incarceration when said punishment is complete. In fact, I am come close to being in favor of a return to public execution when I think on it! I suppose it was very good of Mr. Rousseau to take you to Montparnasse, but I find it difficult to admire him, Addie. I continue to wonder if he is not passing information to your father, for who can guess what sinister purpose? I will again beg you to be wary of confiding in him, although perhaps my caution is not necessary, as you seem to have discovered for yourself that he is capable of dishonesty and misdirection.

As for the letter to your mother! Why, indeed, should your uncle have it in his keeping? I felt almost indecent at reading the words--such an intimate note. But, as you said, rather less than cheerful. It makes me wonder what other intriguing missives you might find in that most mysterious hat box.

I admit to no little surprise that Peter acted upon my advice to write you--indeed, I had meant it more as an insult than advice, since I was rather irritated at the time, and thought it so unlikely to have any useful effect on him. Do not feel poorly if you were hard on him, for he has certainly been neglectful of you. I do not suppose I shall ever discover his reaction to your reply, since Peter is rarely to be found in the mews, and even more rarely to be found in any mood to converse with me beyond the usual courtesies. If I did not have Stuart, I should be quite lonely for want of his company.

And now, I have not breathed a word of this to anyone else, Addie, but I shall tell you that I have had something of an adventure, albeit of a different sort than I should have liked. I could not stop myself thinking on the fate of Mr. Collins, and concluded that it was really too unkind to allow his poor, broken body to remain unidentified, particularly in regards to his family. I had learnt not to consult Stuart in the matter, he having made his opinion abundantly clear, but I nevertheless felt it my duty to Mrs. Collins, wherever she was, to make it possible for her to properly mourn her son, and give him a decent Christian burial. At first I waited, and monitored the Times on the sly, but after six days had passed and the coroner's inquest had been held, the Metropolitan Police had still failed to determine his identity, despite exhaustive efforts on their part. In preparation for this eventuality I had gleaned what little information I could, without arousing too much suspicion, from Stuart and--as it turns out that Peter also knew Mr. Collins at Oxford--from Peter. His given name was Joseph, after his father, he hailed from Yorkshire, he had been a great friend of Stuart's, and only somewhat known by Peter, who is a couple of years younger than the two of them in any case. Most of this I learned from Peter, whom I thought the safer man to question, given Stuart's disinclination to speak of his old chum. Peter did not say so, but I began to suspect strongly that Mr. Collins had been rather a bad influence on Stuart, that perhaps they two had engaged in less-than-respectable activities together, and that Stuart's dislike of the topic stemmed from regret for this former association. If it were true, this would also explain somewhat Stuart's crude behaviour upon meeting Mr. Collins at the Market. Either way, however, I had succeeded in obtaining the information I required, and betook myself to New Scotland Yard. I know what you are thinking, Addie--that if Stuart himself, who knew Mr. Collins well, could not discern his old friend in the morgue photograph, it hardly seems likely that my own opinion (myself having met the man only once, and spent only a matter of moments in his company) should outweigh his. But what harm could it do? Were I wrong, and Mr. Collins remained alive, I myself would be the only one to suffer, and even then the wound would not effect more than my dignity. So I went, and was duly escorted to the appropriate mortuary by a young cadet, and steeled myself against what I knew must be a gruesome sight. The attendant removed the shroud only so far as to reveal the face, which appeared much the same as it had in the photograph, apart from the fact that the eyes had now been closed. I had prepared for a great shock, Addie, but it did not come. To be sure, it was not overly pleasant to behold the slack, pale face of a man I had last seen full of animation and colour--but neither was it ghastly. He was without his hat, of course, and I saw for the first time that his auburn hair was thick and wavy. The features, however, were undoubtedly a match. It was him, and I informed the cadet without further delay that here was Joseph Collins, son of Joseph Collins of Yorkshire, an Oxford man whom I had met some time ago through a mutual acquaintance. I had decided in advance to leave Stuart out of it, knowing how little he would approve, and I also thought it prudent not to mention how recently I had seen the deceased, not wishing to involve Stuart or myself further in the investigation--especially since we could offer no help, and had really only met him in passing. The cadet took down the information I offered, along with my own name and address, promised to submit my information to the coroner, and warned me that I might be summoned for further questioning at the coroner's request. He then thanked me handsomely for my assistance, inquired as to my next destination, and kindly walked me to the station.

I haven't much else to relate, Addie, as my days are pleasantly filled with exercising the horses and making plans for an October wedding. Sir John is quite set on a ceremony at St. Paul's Knightsbridge, and it is certainly a lovely church, but I have been applying to Stuart in hopes that the wedding could take place somewhere other than London, so that you might be more able to attend. Stuart has an Aunt in Surrey, on a charming estate at Rowledge, who would very likely be amenable to hosting the wedding brunch and sundry at Frensham Heights. Stuart describes the parish church at Frensham, St. Mary the Virgin, as quaint--but nevertheless tells me it is quite as beautiful as any church in London. Now I think on it, however ... if the man who wished to claim you as his wife is now in prison, perhaps there is no need! Do let me know, Addie, because I refuse to marry without you as my Maid of Honor.

Write soon--I am anxious to hear of your return to Montparnasse!

Sincerely,

Maitland Bristow

14 Bathurst Mews
London

Go on to the next letter, Letter 33 - Absinthe

Letter 31 - Kind Regards

2009-11-17T04:33:00.005Z

Mr. Peter Bristow
68 Victoria Street
London

27 February 1903

Peter,

How very altruistic of you to write. As a token of our childhood friendship, I am delighted to report to you that I sustained only minor bruising and humiliation. Do not trouble yourself any further for my welfare--I know I shan't trouble myself any further for yours.

Kind regards,

Adeline Westley

23 rue Saint Paul
Paris

Go on to the next letter, Letter 32 - Identification

Letter 30 - Montparnasse

2009-11-14T18:53:00.006Z

Miss Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London

28 February 1903

Dearest Maisie,

Thank you for your words of kindness and comfort. Forgive my lapse in writing you, Maisie, I know you must be distraught with confusion over Stuart's bizarre actions these past weeks. I have always thought fondly of Stuart; but I must admit, it is quite difficult to find much reason in his recent behaviour. Your curious encounter with Mr. Collins certainly brought out the worst in him. I imagine that Mr. Collins was a bit of a rival of sorts for Stuart back at Oxford. Don't mind me saying so, Maisie, but Stuart never was as dedicated in his studies as was Peter; he was always up to some mischief. Perhaps this Mr. Collins was no friend of his at all. Who can say what persuades these men to do what they do? Nevertheless, this does not excuse Stuart's discourteous behaviour towards you. I will say, however, that Stuart seems to have sufficiently redeemed himself.

As for me, dear Maisie, I am getting along a bit better now. 'Tis still difficult to think on the events of my disappearance, but much has transpired since we last corresponded, and I must relay every detail of it to you. Madame Fifi has been bringing me my meals whilst I read in my bed, until these last few days. I have managed to dress myself and attend my meals in the company of my uncle on most occasions as of late. Mr. Westley rarely says more than a brief, "Hello" with the attached, "How are you today, Adeline?" I suspect Mr. Westley has given Madame Fifi explicit instructions as to how to proceed with my health, as each day my regimen seems more and more to resemble the structure I had been used to before. My first inclinations have been to dispose of every remembrance of my recent tribulation and to move ahead, but that has proven much more difficult than it may seem. Some time after I had gone to bed this past Sunday evening, I found myself awakened by a cold draft in the air. I arose out of bed and ventured into the hall as a violent gust of wind came rushing round the eaves of the house, and the door of the guest room down the hall caught my eye as it seemed to move ever so slightly with the gale. I crept softly down the hallway and into the guest room and discovered an open window--the rain streaming inside, pooling on the floor. I hurried toward the beveled glass to close the latch, shielding my face from the cold rain. At that very moment, a memory of the man who had taken me flashed in my mind. I heard him ushering out some lewd women and could feel myself fall in a pile onto the wooden-planked floor. The thundering storm brought my mind back to the present, and I closed and latched the window and turned to go back to my room, intending to rekindle my fire. Before I had left the room, however, its familiarity had triggered an altogether different sort of memory. How could I have forgotten the hat box? I pulled the pretty hat box down from its spot on the shelf, and settled myself upon the bed. After lighting the tapered candle on the night stand, I removed the box's lid. The Christmas card from my mother was still on the top of the stack, but I cast it quickly aside and picked up the next letter to inspect it. It was addressed to my mother--from my father. What possible reason would my Uncle have for keeping a letter that belongs to my mother? I hurriedly opened the flap of the yellowed envelope and began to read. The letter was dated 2 June 1883:

Elyse,

You senseless, beauteous child. How you torment me. In your presence,
I am ignited. In your absence, I am left for want of unthinkable pleasures,
and am nothing more than fire and madness. What choice have I but to
want for you continually? I plead with you not to go through with this.

Walter Westley

It certainly is a strained love note ... I wonder what it is my father meant at the very end? My mother was obviously causing him a great deal of misery at the time. Seems rather odd to imagine him being put out; he has always been the cause of every affliction in our household. Pondering this, I then replaced the letters and the hat box and returned to my own bed. I felt disquieted, but not due to the letter I had read. The mysteries surrounding my family back in London would have to wait. I have long been reconciled to the fact that I am the daughter of the worst sort of man, so his part in my recent bad fortune does not trouble me overmuch. It is not knowing who is responsible for my recent deliverance that seems to tarry in my thoughts. I did not sleep well the remainder of the night, my thoughts and dreams dwelling on my unknown saviour.

By morning my unorganised musings seemed to have arranged themselves quite tidily into a recommendation for a singular course of action--I had come to a decision. Distressing as it was likely to be, I must press my memory for answers. When I had finished my breakfast, and closeted myself again in my room, I sorted through every bit of ugliness I could recall, in hopes of finding some new clue--and then it came to me Maisie: The Frenchman--the one who returned me to Mr. Westley--he said the man who instructed him to bring me home was not French, but a foreigner--he said this man wore a Homburg hat like our king--King Edward .... Eduard .... He came back. The very moment of my realisation, I ran to find Madame Fifi, and asked when to expect Mr. Rousseau for a French lesson, to which she replied, "He will be here in one hour." She looked rather baffled by my elation, as I hurried down the hallway to ready myself. I was already perched on my seat in the library, anxious for Mr. Rousseau to make his way inside the small, book-filled room, when at last he made his entrance, settling himself in his usual chair. I bombarded him at once, "Where is he? When did he return? Why has he not come for me--or at the least come to call--?" Mr. Rousseau raised his hand to silence me, "Who is it that you presume to--no!--you don't believe Steichen came back for you?" There was a long pause, and a look of disbelief upon Mr. Rousseau's face. I offered, "Well, I know we did not part on the most amicable of terms, but he did care for me, and how could I not forgive him after his service to me?" The look of utter disbelief did not fade from Mr. Rousseau. He slowly raised himself from his seat and said, "You mean to conclude that Eduard Steichen has returned to Paris, and that it was he who facilitated your rescue?" The idea sounded so childish coming from Mr. Rousseau. He gathered his books and said, "That is the most ludicrous of thoughts! Eduard was nothing more than a filthy artist who left you disgraced and shamed, and here you sit, like the naive girl that you are, dreaming he has come to make amends." He stopped his tirade. I had hidden my face in my hands--unable to bear his harsh words with any amount of dignity--and was sobbing, "Please, Vaughn, please help me find him ... " He pressed his lips together tightly and seemed to be exerting all his efforts in controlling himself. He drew in a long, deep breath and said, "There is a café in Montparnasse ... I will accompany you there this evening. Steichen could often be found there. But I must warn you, Adeline, you will not find him. He is not here." I, too, rose from my seat and replied, "Well then, if that is true, you should have no reason to be so agitated at the idea." After which Mr. Rousseau left, seeming to have quite forgotten my lesson. My heart is clouded by all that has transpired--I know this, Maisie. Eduard, at the least, feels some obligation to me. I know he is not infallible, but he has shown me more kindness and charity in his return, than any other man I have known, and I intend to return that love.

It was not long before Mr. Rousseau had returned, right on the hour, at four o'clock. He seemed in a much more amiable mood and offered me his arm as we began our long walk to Montparnasse. Since he knew my days have mostly consisted of resting and bothering Andre for sweet crêpes, we talked of his recent lectures at La Sorbonne and of Mr. Rousseau's family in Brittany. It was a most enjoyable start to our evening, and I could not help but find Mr. Rousseau--or Vaughn--as he insists I call him, to be much more inviting than usual--perhaps even genteel. As pleasant as he was, my mind was still firm on finding Eduard, and giving him the chance to find himself forgiven. I did not wish to incite Mr. Rousseau's former mood of disapproval, but could not help inquiring, "Do you think we shall find Eduard out tonight?" Vaughn stopped walking and pulled out his pocket watch. After a moment he replied, "If he is in France, he will be there tonight. We will arrive precisely on time for l’heure verte. Even on the evenings he spent with you, Adeline, he still found time to saunter into Le Dôme Café for a drink with his rabble colleagues." Just before five o'clock, we arrived at the entrance to the Café. It was a cramped space, and the walls were cluttered with all manner of different paintings. The bistro was overflowing, mostly with men huddled around small, round tables, speaking quietly and ruminating on the topics of the artistry and expertise of various fellows. They were an altogether motley group, but with a most surprising fluidity and manner about them as they conversed one with another. Vaughn surveyed the room, and began to fret over his spectacles as he eyed two men in conversation towards the back. Sensing his unrest, I asked, "Do you know those men?" He glanced my way and replied, "Yes." I followed him to the back of the bar where the two men sat; one wore a mustache, the other was clean-shaven. They ceased speaking and watched us as we approached.

The man with the mustache spoke first, "Rousseau ... Have you come for lessons in art? Perhaps sculpting?" Vaughn was clearly uneasy. He retorted, "Van Hecke, when what you do can be immortalized in the halls of a museum in Paris, rather than the walls of this Café, then I shall visit your flat, and inquire with the rats where to find you." It became clear to me what it cost Vaughn to be here, and that he had only brought me at my behest. I felt rather sorry for subjecting Vaughn to this situation, and thought it best to have the question come from me, "Gentlemen, if you don't mind my inquiring, we are looking for Eduard Steichen." The man called Van Hecke glared at Vaughn, "Steichen? What would Steichen want with you?" Then Van Hecke turned to me and most reverently said, "And why would we want to direct this lovely creature into the arms of that American?" I could not help but smile, Maisie. The compliment left me without words, and I hoped Vaughn could come up with some clever response to garner Eduard's whereabouts from these bohemians. I suppose I should take care what I wish for, Maisie, for Vaughn had a clever response, indeed: "Sirs, allow me to introduce Adeline Westley, my wife." Maisie, I went numb. Vaughn continued, "Steichen owes me money." As I stood there dumbfounded, the man with the mustache replied, "Why would Steichen owe anything to you, Rousseau? And are you certain you want to find him? I suspect he might not be enthused about your recent ... acquisition." Vaughn was flushed red with chagrin. He grabbed me by the arm and led me out of the café without another word.

Suffice it to say, I have not spoken to Vaughn over the last few days. By the time I arrived back at the estate, I was erupting with fury over Vaughn's lie, and went straightaway to apprise my uncle. Mr. Westley was not persuaded to discontinue my lessons with Mr. Rousseau, however, he did concede to defer my lessons for two weeks time. This accomplished, I hastened to my room where I sat brooding. How very disappointed I am, Maisie, that all the men in my life, with the exception of Eduard, have turned out to be so subject to fallaciousness. They have all proven themselves so ... ordinary. As I sat there, disconsolate, I remembered Peter's letter. I do not know how much you speak with Peter these days, or if you are aware he has written me. I noticed a different address on the envelope, and I assume he no longer resides with your family in the mews. It was the most formal and unfeeling of missives I could imagine receiving, and was more painful than having received no word from him at all. I'm afraid I was not able to dismiss from my mind the many months he has remained silent. I penned a reply, but I daresay he will not write again. I am afraid the condition of my mood did not lend itself to a pleasant response.

I am all but consumed with returning to Montparnasse--alone--to set those men straight and to find my Eduard.

Yours,

Adeline Westley

23 rue Saint Paul
Paris

Go on to the next letter, Letter 31 - Kind Regards

Letter 29 - Mr. Collins

2009-11-07T05:54:00.011Z

Miss Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris

12 February 1903

Dearest Addie,

It is cruel that we should be apart at a time like this. I cannot express fully the utter helplessness I feel, Addie, while you are in such a delicate state and all that is in my power to do is scribble on bits of paper. If I ever have the misfortune to lay eyes on that presumptuous bastard I shall cheerfully channel all of my strength into damaging every bit of him that I can reach! I have so many questions, Addie, but I do not wish to burden you with them. Perhaps it is better that you do not remember much of your ordeal. The important thing is that you are safe now. And you needn't apologize to me, dearest, for your brazen tongue or anything else. You are right, of course, I am not there, and cannot know the extent of your sufferings. It was rather supercilious of me to assume that I knew more about your uncle and your own mother than you do. It is I who must beg forgiveness, and ask that you not judge me too harshly for my pretentiousness. I hope it is not equally imperious of me to refute your assertion that a marriage to that bastard would be no worse than finding yourself the wife of Mr.Rousseau or the young Mr. Fortescue--you musn't think such a thing, Addie, it is patently untrue! But I do not blame you for feeling disillusioned. I only wish to comfort you, and convince you that all is not lost. Please do not lose hope, Addie.

What Peter thinks of your misadventure I cannot say, for I have not had the opportunity to relate it to him. He has left us, Addie. He did not return for dinner on the evening of the day I overheard his argument with Stuart, nor did he return at all for several more days. Mum and Dad were quite worried, although Dad--being used to Peter's regular absences for travel--took a rather less hysterical approach than Mum. Poor Mum was frantic, but my ungrateful brother had not the decency to inform her that he had taken a small flat in Victoria Street two weeks previously and, I can only assume in a fit of bad temper, chosen that notable day to take up residence there. When he at last deigned to alleviate our fears by honouring us with his presence--or rather, when he at last realized that he really couldn't do without certain personal effects that he had left behind--he had the grace to apologize to Mum for upsetting her, but would not be budged from his decision to leave us. This was not entirely unexpected, as he has threatened it for the better part of a year, ever since he returned from Oxford, but Mum's pleading (and I should think her excellent cooking, no doubt) were enough to keep him home until now. I must admit, Addie, that I had been wracked with worry myself, but my brother felt no need to apologize to me. He departed with those few items he had come to collect, and could only be coaxed into a commitment to return for Sunday dinners after much effort on Mum's part and a rather stern look from Dad. His parting comment, thrown over his shoulder as he took his leave, was, "Don't be anxious if I miss a Sunday or two, Mum, I'll likely be taking a good many overnight excursions for Mr. Morgan." I only just managed to restrain myself from kicking him the rest of the way out of the Mews. I realized at that moment, Addie, as I watched him disappear around the corner, that I could hardly take the vague accusations of such an inconsiderate wretch over the most excellent and worthy conduct of my own dear Stuart, and decided then and there to put the argument from my mind. We have seen Peter only occasionally since that time, and I know Mum suffers because of it, although she attempts to hide it. I shall likely regret telling you this, Addie, but Peter did ask after you--it was the first Sunday he materialized in the Mews for dinner, three weeks ago Sunday. He asked, but I considered him unworthy of knowing--him having ignored you these nine months! I only told him you are "as well as can be expected," and then added, "If you wish to know more--here's an idea, Peter--write to her yourself," and we spoke no more on the subject.

Addie, I have so much of interest to tell you. I hope it will distract you from your current troubles and aide in your speedy recovery. As you may well have guessed, I never did confront Stuart about the things I overheard. Indeed, I had been so concerned about Peter's welfare during those first days after his disappearance that Stuart certainly could not have known that a portion of my anxiety was owing to my doubts concerning himself. But after I made the decision to trust Stuart regardless, my mind was much more at ease. Nothing seemed amiss at all over the days and weeks that followed. Stuart was obliged to spend a good deal of time with his father, Sir John having been in ill health most of the season and Stuart being his favourite companion. But in all the intervening days we succeeded in entertaining ourselves with a variety of outings, visits, and social events. Saturday last I persuaded Stuart to accompany me to Portobello Road, as Emily Carrington had recommended that the particular type of silver napkin ring I was seeking could be obtained for a good price from a certain tradesman who made his living selling his wares at the Market. Stuart and I were having such larks watching a funny old buffer (who was peddling pins and ribbons from a cart) spoon feed and dress his Scottish Terrier exactly as if the old dog were a baby, when Stuart was hailed from the other side of the square. "Hill, is that you, old man?" I looked up to see a tall, rather well-dressed young gentlemen approaching. "Good afternoon," he said genially, extending his hand to Stuart. Stuart hesitated for a fraction of a second before taking it and turned his head slightly in my direction as he said, "Yes, it's been a long time ... ?" "Collins," the young man provided, smiling still more widely. Stuart seemed to flinch a little at the name, but replied quite affably, "Yes, of course ... Collins." The man then turned to me, although his words were directed at Stuart. "And aren't you going to introduce me? If you don't mind my saying so, Hill, she is exquisite. Is she yours?" Stuart, who had been wary up to this point, was suddenly relaxed and seemed almost bored. "You might say so, Collins. May I introduce you to Miss Bristow? Miss Bristow, Mr. Collins. I hope you've been well, old chap. It seems ages since I've seen you." Mr. Collins did not take his eyes from me, nor release my hand, which I had offered after Stuart's introduction. He simply continued to stare at me in such a way as to make me feel rather exposed and uncomfortable. I didn't know why Stuart didn't seem in the least bothered by this forward behaviour, and underneath my discomfiture I became aware of a spark of anger. Finally, Collins relinquished my hand and cast an eye up at Stuart, who was looking particularly nonchalant. "No chance you'll share, then?" Stuart appeared to be preoccupied with something behind me, and I stole a glance over my shoulder to see what had his attention. Addie, I was shocked to see a rather dirty-looking, attractive young girl returning Stuart's stare with interest from across the street. She was hawking jewelry from a small tray hung round her slim neck, although she was presently ignoring the rather plump lady inspecting her wares. I regarded Stuart in open bewilderment for a moment, then schooled my face into a more dignified expression for the benefit of Mr. Collins, who was still waiting for Stuart to answer him, and grinning rather stupidly at him. Tearing his gaze away from the dirty girl, Stuart bestowed an apologetic smile on Mr. Collins and said only, "I don't much fancy a buttered bun, Collins. But to each his own, I say. Well, it's good to see you're alive and well. Are you staying in the city?" "For a short time, yes. I find that the cuisine available in the city improves greatly upon bread and butter pudding. Indeed, I intend to consume as much baisers de Vierge as I can before I take my leave. I should be delighted to see you again--and your charming fiancée." Mr. Collins made a slight bow as he tipped his hat and turned on his heel, eyeing me again and winking at Stuart before he strolled across the street to speak to the wretched girl, who immediately began trying to interest him in a gold ring from her tray. As soon as Mr. Collins was well away from us I did my best to scald Stuart with a look of highest indignation. "I am sure," I said calmly, "you must have an explanation for your outrageous behaviour just now." Stuart merely closed his eyes and turned his face toward the sky, flexing his neck and managing to look supremely unaffected. I began to tremble. Addie, who was this man? My anger was slipping into despair as I looked at my dear Stuart, who was obviously not in the least concerned about the way I had been treated. Attempting to pull myself together, I began timidly, "Stuart, I don't understand--" but he interrupted me almost immediately, and with such hostility that it felt like a physical blow. "No, you bloody well don't understand. You never do. You think because you went to that ridiculous joke of a school that you know what it's like to be a man, but you don't. So I beg you to please keep your pathetically naive opinions and puzzlements to yourself in future. I haven't the patience to bother with them." He had raised his voice, Addie, and I'm sure everyone on the street must have been staring at us. For myself, I could hardly believe my ears. I couldn't seem to form a coherent thought, much less speak, so I simply stood there, looking at the cobblestones, until at length Stuart let out an exasperated snort, grabbed me roughly by the elbow, and steered me off down the street in the opposite direction from Mr. Collins and the girl.

Stuart said nothing more, but turned me in a homeward direction and proceeded to walk swiftly, a little ahead of me, in what I felt to be a ponderously weighty quiet. The journey home, though less than two miles, seemed to me endless. It was as though my very soul was alternately struggling for some form of understanding and solace, then crumpling inward on itself as no help or comfort presented itself. I was rather pathetic, of course, Addie, but Stuart had been my world. I was able to disbelieve Peter's pettish accusations, but this--I had seen this with my own eyes, heard it all too clearly with my own ears! How could I discount my own senses, Addie? And the continuing silence from Stuart was confirming and solidifying my every fear. The closer we drew to the Mews, the more sure I became. Stuart did not love me. Stuart had never truly regarded me very highly, and had now grown tired of me. Each step we took together in silence seemed to stamp these horrifying truths more irrevocably into my agonized consciousness. He would leave me. He would become enamored of someone else, perhaps a high born lady who had not been so ridiculous as to seek an education beyond the ladylike pursuits of music and needlework. It was over. Which is why I was so extraordinarily taken aback when, the moment we left Westbourne for the Mews, Stuart seemed to collapse as if he had been bound and had suddenly found his bonds released. Before I had time to notice that he was no longer walking stonily at my side I looked down to see him crouched on the cobbled street, Addie, clutching the hem of my dress as if he were in agony and the only comfort he could hope for was the touch of the Poiret in his hands. Addie, it was such a shock to see him like that ... but I had been so devastated, so despairing ... I hadn't time to think of anything to say. Our entire acquaintance, our brief but delightful courtship, all of my shining plans for our future lay in smoldering ruins because of what he had just done, and now he was groveling at my feet? I could only stare at him, completely bewildered, as he raised his eyes to my face and said, in the most plaintive tones I have ever heard him use, "Forgive me, Maisie!" It pleased me a little, to see him so repentant, but it also frightened me. I have never seen Stuart so vulnerable, and it made me rather uncomfortable. "I didn't mean a word of it," he buried his face in my skirt so that his next words were muffled, "I beg you, Maisie, please." Unable to stand it any longer, I urged him to get up off the street, but he refused. "Not until you say you have forgiven me." I could hear Dad whistling to himself in the stables, Addie, I knew he might emerge into the alley at any moment, and I couldn't bear the thought of him witnessing this scene. It didn't take me long to make my decision. I knelt down next to Stuart and took his head in my hands, letting my fingers run gently over his shapely ears and his smooth, dark hair. He was so handsome, so utterly without guile in that moment, and in such apparent anguish. I laid my head on his and whispered, "I forgive you, dearest--of course I forgive you! Now please get up." I was not at all sure what to expect, all things considered, but Stuart seemed to recover immediately. He straightened up, lifting me up with his hand round my waist as he did so; he smiled slightly, but looked rather like a man who has just passed through the worst of a terrible illness--content, but with an air of well-earned exhaustion. He kissed my hair fondly, and whispered, "It shan't happen again, Maisie. Never." It was perplexing indeed, but his regret seemed so sincere that my ill feelings melted away as swiftly as they had come, leaving only confusion behind. A little afraid to ask, I managed to stammer, "But, why?" He pulled me close to him, and said, matter-of-factly, "Lost my head, little love. I never did much like Collins at Oxford. He ... inspires the worst in me."

It played out that Stuart had been invited away for dinner that evening with his father and some of his father's friends, so I was left with Mum and Dad to spend the remainder of the day seized by various mental fits of worry and wonder. It was a great relief when, next day, Stuart arrived for tea and was in excellent spirits, despite having injured himself after falling off his horse while out riding with his father. He was the same dear, affectionate, laughing Stuart I had become accustomed to, and no trace of the cruel and arrogant version of yesterday could I detect. It is as Mum told me when I expressed some little of my confusion over his behaviour--"Marriage is much more complex than you are likely to have suspected, Maisie, and men ever more so." So I must conclude that, as long as Stuart does not behave himself poorly on a consistent basis--as long as he recognizes and apologizes for his occasional follies--I must forgive him, and still consider myself fortunate to have gained the affections of a man who can at least recognize his less noble actions and attempt to make up for them. It isn't foolish of me, is it, Addie? Because marrying Stuart doesn't feel like foolishness ... it feels like the most wonderful gift I could have hoped for, in spite of our difficulties. Stuart was an excellent companion the entirety of the evening, for he stayed for dinner as well, although I was rather frustrated at his reaction to an exasperating episode which occurred in the interval between tea and dinner, while Stuart and Dad were discussing the various injuries they had sustained while riding, and both of them were in high humor. I had been listening, thoroughly amused at Stuart's exaggerated reenactment of his most recent injury, when I happened to glance at the day's copy of the Times, which was lying on the chesterfield, I presume where Dad had left it. A familiar face caught my eye, staring vaguely up at me from a small photograph on the open page. It was Mr. Collins, the very same man who had inspired such uncharacteristic rudeness in Stuart. Upon closer inspection of the accompanying article, I realized, to my horror, that the man's body had been discovered, his throat crushed, in a small room above a pub on Wapping Wall. The room had not been let to the dead man, however, for the body had been discovered by the rightful tenant early that morning, when said tenant had arrived home after a night of carousing. Although I had no special affection for Mr. Collins, indeed the memory of him is loathsome to me in the extreme, I could not help but feel a pang of pity for him. How horrible, Addie, for any man. Curiously, the article stated that the man was unidentified. And, more curious still, Stuart exhibited very little interest in the whole affair. When I showed him the picture and expressed the assumption that, surely, he would want to go down to the morgue and identify the poor fellow, he squinted at it for a moment and then said, "Don't excite yourself, Maisie, that's never my old chum Collins. Bit of a ringer, I suppose. That's all," and went back to his conversation with Dad. No matter how I insisted, Addie, he would have none of it--although he was more amused than put out. In fact, he and Dad teased me mercilessly the remainder of the evening, suggesting that my liking for newspaper serials was affecting my good sense, and that I was allowing myself to get caught up in my own dramatic imaginations. At one point Stuart declared that it could hardly have been the man we met, since I had seen him only yesterday, hale and hearty as you please. To which I replied, "A healthy constitution is all well and good, Stuart, but it will hardly protect a man from having his throat bashed in for him!" It was really too vexing. I am sure it was Collins, Addie. I shall never forget that vacant, handsome face. I am not exactly sorry that he is dead, although I wouldn't wish it on him. But it was rather disconcerting to recall his smiling, insipid expression, and then compare it to the empty stare in the morgue photograph.

I'll close here, Addie dearest, for I have spent far too much time in writing this letter already, and I am anxious to post it with all haste, in hopes that it will reach you swiftly and find you well. Please write soon.

Sincerely,

Maitland Bristow

14 Bathurst Mews
London

Go on to the next letter, Letter 30 - Montparnasse

Letter 28 - Token of Friendship

2009-11-07T01:35:00.008Z

Miss Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris

10 February 1903

Dear Miss Westley,

Maisie is barely speaking to me, but I was informed of your mishap by my mother. I hope you were not too grievously injured, and wish you the swiftest of recoveries. If you are able, and as a token of our childhood friendship, I would not be opposed to hearing from you in regards to your health and well being in the wake of this cruel circumstance.

Respectfully yours,

Peter Bristow

68 Victoria Street
London

Go on to the next letter, Letter 29 - Mr. Collins

Letter 27 - Dissociation

2009-10-30T04:22:00.024Z

Miss Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London

30 January 1903

Dear Maisie,

Maisie, forgive my procrastination in writing you. I have inhabited the confines of my bedroom for more than a week now, and only within the last few days have I been able to piece things together. My memories of the recent past are vivid, but incomplete at best. I recall a time, a few days ago, perhaps, when the door to my bedroom was cracked open slightly and I overheard Mr. Westley consulting with Mr. Rousseau, "Get me the Chair of the department." I immediately recognised Vaughn's choppy voice: "Well, I shall check into it for you as soon as I return but ... " Mr. Westley interrupted him: "You will go now. And you will give the doctor my calling card, and tell him I expect to see him on the morrow." To which Mr. Rousseau replied, " ... of course." Shortly thereafter Madame Fifi came in with some tea and biscuits. "How do you feel?" she asked kindly. I felt weak, and winced in pain as I opened my mouth to answer. Madame Fifi stopped me, "I am foolish--please forgive me, ma cherie, do not answer, just rest." I placed my hand to my jaw--it was tender to the touch, and swollen. Madame Fifi left the tray on my bedside table before she left and instructed, "Rest now, the bruises will heal." Bruises? At once the memory of a handsome, older man reared up in my thoughts--I can place him now--he was the staggering, drunken man my father brought home back in London. Only here he was clean-shaven--not the bearded, liquored man I have etched in my mind. His voice was raspy and low, "You think that wise of you, bunter? Best to break you in now, love." He approached me, raising the backside of his hand--then the memory hastily vanished. I let out a gasp--then grimaced because of it. Slowly the memories came leaking back into my consciousness: I was in a small room, in what I can only imagine was a tawdry hotel. The man paced the width of the room, then approached me, his smooth, fluid hands brushing down the side of my face, "I'd fancy nothing more than to unrig you tonight--but seeing as how I'm a gentleman, I'll wait until the vicar makes it official tomorrow." Moving backward, he shut the door. I recall crying ... no, 'twas more screaming than crying. I do not seem to remember much more, Maisie. I must have fallen back into a deepened state of sleep after these jarring memories had begun to fade again, as I did not awake until the doctor arrived the following morning. Madame Fifi introduced him, "This is Docteur Laroche." The doctor smiled hesitantly, and went on to explain, "I understand your uncle was expecting Docteur Janet, but he is a very busy man, as you can well imagine." He fiddled with his bag, "I am a former student of his ... " I am quite certain my unwillingness to speak unless it was absolutely required of me made this fellow uneasy--unless it was the sight of me that so disturbed him. The doctor sat beside the bed and took out a tablet with which he began to write. He paused and asked, "Now tell me, Adeline, what do you remember?" I tried without great success to relay what I had remembered thus far. He sat for a few moments, quiet and pensive. "Would you object to some alternative form of calling up your memories?" I was hardly enthused to relive any more of whatever it was that happened to me, but I was tired, so I simply said, "I trust you will do what is best."

Dr. Laroche held up a small, silver lancet case just inches from the bridge of my nose, and asked me to expend all of my efforts in concentrating upon the object, without deviation. I did as he asked, but must have faded off to sleep again, for I do not recall what next he asked of me. When I awoke, Dr. Laroche praised me, "Very good, Adeline, I will report to Mr. Westley and the brigadier my findings, and I wish to you an expeditious recovery." With a quick glance back in my direction, the doctor left. I was left alone in my room and, as puzzled as I was about the mysterious events that had transpired a few nights past, I was not distressed. If I'm honest, I was quite the contrary. The doctor shuffled out, but I heard bits of his report to Mr. Westley as he tarried in the stairwell, "She suffers from dissociation amnesia. It will pass. As for her physical health, I read Dr. Patrie's report. All things considered, it is indeed extraordinary that, apart from the bruise on her face, she was not defiled." Brightening his tone, he mused, "She is an exceedingly attractive young lady ... " My uncle replied, "That is rather out of your field of expertise, Monsieur Laroche, is it not? You needn't trouble yourself with any future appointments in this household. Madame Fifi, show the man his way out." Madame Fifi quickly peered inside the room, closing the door. I slowly sat up in bed--it seemed it was the first time I had been awake in days. A large black object caught the corner of my eye, and I turned to find that Dr. Laroche had forgotten his bag. I bent down and found the doctor's tablet. It was scribbled with notes detailing the incident. I read them through, Maisie, and it did not take long for the truth of the transcription to be made clear to me. I had gone missing and fallen into the hands of my father's creditor, and somehow had come to be returned to my Uncle. I read from Laroche's notes:

Patient recalls a loud rapping at the door, whilst being held outside in the cold.
Patient states that her uncle answered the door.
Patient claims a "ragged Frenchman, speaking mottled English" asked, ' Reward for the mademoiselle?'
Mr. Westley solicited the stranger for more information; the Frenchman answered, "Un homme--a man--in the alley near a deserted bâtiment told me where to find the girl."
Patient states, "The Frenchman transferred me into Mr. Westley's arms, as he received the reward that was offered for my safe return."
Patient also adds that her uncle questioned the Frenchman as to any descriptive details regarding the man who had come to her aide.
Patient states the Frenchman answered, " Je suis désolé--I do not know ... he did wear un chapeau--like your king ... comment est-ce qu'on dit ... un homburg?"

I tucked the papers back into the satchel and lay back down, calling on Madame Fifi to alert Doctor Laroche to his missing bag. I am left alone here to sort this all out--and I doubt very much I shall be successful. The very last thing I can recall before this ghastly turn of events is having tea in the parlour. Despite the fact that I have hardly moved from my bed, it has been a most arduous week. Julien and Vaughn sent notes to express their condolences, but I had Madame Fifi dispose of them straightaway. I am grown tired of weak-minded men, Maisie.

As for your theories, Maisie--I can concede that perhaps I was a tad hasty in condemning Mr. Westley--but you are not here. You do not feel the unrest that is mine every time I am in his presence. As for your thoughts that I may not truly belong to my mother: the idea is, well, unthinkable. She has not been very forthcoming concerning my uncle, it is true, and has seen fit to all but abandon me here in Paris, but I know my own mother. What does any of it matter, anyhow? Perchance Mr. Westley is my father--what of it? Who in this place cares enough about the truth to tell it? Even Stuart and Peter are keeping things, now ... indifferent Peter.

Forgive me for my brazen tongue, dear friend. It would seem my faith in love and the happy ending have diminished somewhat. It is not to say I am afraid--for I am not. I suppose that is the most tragic part of all this, the realisation that eventually I will have to make a choice. I will have to choose from amongst these feeble misters, and answer "yes" to marriage, and go on to make the best of things. My heart has been broken, and for the most inexplicable reason, I blame Peter most. Why, Maisie? Why has Peter remained silent these many months? Does he not understand it is he who has hurt me most of all? It does not matter. Perhaps this loathsome stranger will come for me again. And really, why should that be so terrible? My future with Julien or Vaughn would prove to be just as wretched and miserable, if for less despicable reasons. So, shall I close my eyes and draw straws for my fate, then? Merry women we shall surely be, Maisie--both of us in wedding white. Be happy that your Stuart is the choice of your heart. Do not let Peter quash that happiness. Peter is not aiming to protect you, Maisie. He hasn't the virtue to protect anyone.

I will be easily encouraged by your next writings.

Yours,

Adeline Westley

23 rue Saint Paul
Paris

Go on to the next letter, Letter 28 - Token of Friendship

Letter 26 - Theories and Things Overheard

2009-10-20T18:28:00.019+01:00

Miss Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris

9 January 1903

Dearest Addie,

Your Christmas letter was like a serial! I know you were genuinely frightened, and I was so horrified for you, dearest, but at the same time it was quite a thrilling read. Now, don’t think me unfeeling, Addie. If I thought you were in any real danger I would currently be on a train to Paris to fetch you, not sitting here calmly writing you a letter. I do not blame you for fearing Mr. Westley, especially under the circumstances. André ought to be ashamed of himself—feeding you such nonsense. I’m sure you have already reached these conclusions, but permit me to point out that, for all his sinister suggestions, André has not a whit of evidence to substantiate a crime on Mr. Westley’s part. He was intoxicated, Addie, and is more than likely superstitious to boot. Think on it, Addie—would your mother have allowed Mr. Westley to murder his own child? If the “atrocity” she referred to was indeed murder, would she have failed to alert the authorities, and merely posted the beast a scathing Christmas card some months after the event? Surely not. And I am just as certain that Madame Fifette, whatever her weaknesses may be when it comes to her “Charles,” would not have comforted a cold-blooded child killer and recommended that he not “be so hard” on himself. The idea is ludicrous. If the child did indeed perish, and if Mr. Westley deserves any blame for the tragedy, I am sure it was something less than outright murder. In fact, Addie, I have given the matter a great deal of consideration, and I think I may have solved the mystery of the portrait, the Christmas card, and the estrangement of the two Mr. Westley’s. Do hear me out. If my theory proves true, the little girl in the portrait needn't have been murdered at all. In fact, she lives still. Have you never considered, Addie, that the little girl in the portrait might be you? That perhaps you are Mr. Westley’s daughter? I know it sounds far fetched, but think on it, Addie. What if, for reasons best known to himself, Mr. Westley refused to care for you as a child? Perhaps he wished for a boy … or perhaps his wife died in childbirth, and he could not find it in his heart to love the child he held responsible for her untimely death? I do not know, Addie, but it would certainly make sense that your mother (or rather, your aunt) might have taken pity on you--a tiny infant bereft of her mother and rejected by her father—and agreed to raise you as her own. Perhaps she was unable to have her own children. This would indeed account for the chastisement she directed at Mr. Westley in the Christmas card, and the estrangement between your father and uncle. If, indeed, the man you have called Father is truly your uncle, that would also shed light on his less than affectionate treatment of you. Perhaps he is jealous of the compassion and affection his wife has bestowed upon another man's child? Perhaps he resents the financial burden of your care (wretched man!) and blames you as well as his brother for this obligation? It all fits, Addie. The woman you call Mother would certainly be haunted by the idea of Mr. Westley's obsession with your portrait--indeed, I am rather troubled by it myself. It would also explain Mr. Westley's rather reserved affection for you, and his willingness to take you in when you arrived so suddenly on his proverbial doorstep. Upon meeting you he could not have helped but love you--you are quite irresistible--but surely the guilt and regret over his abandonment have been eating at him these eighteen years! His rejection of his own daughter is very likely the "terrible mistake" Madame Fifette was referring to. I could be wrong, of course. But it would be so romantic, don't you think, to find out you are heiress to a great estate? No amount of wealth could make you more lovable than you already are, Addie, but it could certainly make you more comfortable.

As for Julien Fortescue, I am quite uneducated when it comes to French men--but if they are anything like British men, I suspect he is fascinated with you. If Stuart is any guide, the more he bewilders and infuriates you the greater the likelihood he will eventually propose. A man like the young Mr. Fortescue could likely take his pick of Parisienne girls--and as much as the knowledge of that fact may gratify his ego, the reality of the matter must bore him to tears. How much more interesting, then, to pursue you--the one girl in Paris who continually rejects him?

I had intended to close and post your letter as soon as I had gotten back from a small errand for Mum, but, Addie—I’m so upset I can scarcely hold my pen. Mum has been out all day visiting friends in Marylebone, and she instructed me to go and fetch her Wedgwood teapot from the potter’s before 5 o’clock. I had told Peter I’d be back soon, gone out and collected the teapot, and returned home. As I entered the hall I froze where I stood. Stuart’s voice was emanating rather loudly from the sitting room, thick with sarcasm. I had obviously interrupted some argument, but the first bit I caught was, “ … the change of heart. I particularly liked the bit where you shouted at me in front of your parents, that was lovely, that was.” Then Peter’s voice rang hard and cold from the same room, “You’ve been sneaking around.” A brief silence was followed by a rather incredulous laugh from Stuart, and then, “I’ve been ‘sneaking around’ for simply ages, old boy, I don’t see why it should make any difference to you, of all people—”

“Because I didn’t know about it before, old boy. And because now you’ve got a wife to think of!”

“Oh, that’s rich, Peter. I suppose you’re reserving yourself for the occasional lucky ladybird that crosses your path, are you? How very altruistic of you.”

“This isn’t about me, Stuart. I love her …” there was a heavy pause and then, more quietly, “and you’re going to destroy her.”

“You’ve seen this, have you? You’re a prophet, then? The bloody Saint Trick Seer, I suppose—”

“Shut your filthy mouth!”

“—you’ve seen how it’ll all play out—”

The anger seemed to have been sapped from Peter’s voice when he spoke again: “I’ve seen enough to know the odds are not in your favor on this.”

At which point an abrupt silence fell over the house, and I suddenly realized that the teapot was no longer in my hands, but was lying shattered in myriad pieces across the entryway. Stuart emerged from the sitting room with Peter close on his heels, and immediately began sweeping up the shards of china with his hands. My mind was reeling, but somehow I knew that sitting there watching him dispose of the mess wasn’t quite the thing to do, and I began clumsily helping him scrape the pieces into a pile. “What’s happened, Maisie, have you just come in?” Stuart asked. I can only imagine how I must have looked to him, shaking slightly and no doubt drained of colour. I merely pointed to the floor and said, rather unnecessarily, “Yes, I—I broke Mum’s teapot …” Peter silently carried the pieces to the bin while Stuart helped me to the settle in the kitchen. “Are you all right, then? Not harmed? You don’t look well.”

“No, I—it’s only I dropped the teapot … but what are you doing here, Stuart?”

“Yes, that … well I had a bit of gentleman’s business to discuss with Peter. I’m off now … shall I come round for dinner later?”

“Yes.” And he kissed me on the cheek, donned his coat, and disappeared into the street. I rounded on Peter, my confusion turning swiftly to anger. “What was all that about, then?”

“Gentleman’s business, like the man said,” Peter offered dismissively, picking up his Gazette.

“Is it … were you accusing him of what I think you were accusing him of?”

“Eavesdropping, were you?” Peter’s laugh was bitter indeed. “If you’re going to listen at doors you shouldn’t be surprised that you don’t like what you overhear. I suppose you heard everything, then?” I was becoming angrier by the minute. “‘Enough to know the odds are not in your favor on this.’” Peter smiled grimly. “Maisie, you don’t know anything.”

“Well then perhaps you could remedy that, Peter, as you seem to know quite enough to share around.”

“It’s none of your affair, Maisie. Go make the tea. And please tell Mum I won’t be back for dinner.” And with that he left me there in the kitchen, a small trickle of blood dripping from my finger onto the floor.

How could he, Addie? Why is he trying to ruin everything for Stuart and me? Peter knew I would be returning before tea, perhaps he wanted me to overhear, to turn me against Stuart? Or is he truly trying to protect me? Is it possible that Stuart is … not who I think he is? You’ve no idea what it cost me, Addie, just to set that last down in print. I feel horribly as if my writing down the wretched thought has made it more likely to be true. I can’t seem to find the will to do anything but fret. I know if I don’t do something soon I’ll go off my onion with fear and worry. It’s only, I’m all tied up in knots—I haven’t the faintest idea what to do. But I shall have to face Stuart soon, and I know this: I cannot pretend it never happened.

Sincerely,

Maitland Bristow

14 Bathurst Mews
London

Go on to the next letter, Letter 27 - Dissociation

Letter 25 - Christmas in Paris

2009-10-16T07:29:00.010+01:00

Miss Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London

25 December 1902

Dearest Maisie,

I know I may be taking a risk even penning some of this down on paper, but I am overcome with questions, and am in desperate need of your advice. I must calm myself, and start from the beginning.

Early this morning--out of pure habit, I was up at dawn with all the fervor of a young girl awaiting the gifts of Father Christmas. Naturally, I was the only one up at such an ungodly hour. I tip-toed down the hallway into the parlour to take in the scent of the pine tree. I sank into the arm chair and closed my eyes: I could see Mother taking the whistling teapot off the stove, and Father smoking his favourite pipe whilst sitting in his leather club chair, no doubt reading that morning's Gazette. I wondered what Christmas was like for them without me this year. I opened my eyes to the sound of André bobbing about in the kitchen, clanking the pots and pans, bustling about in preparation for our Christmas feast.

Mr. Westley was very generous—there were several beautifully wrapped packages for me containing clothes and books. Madame Fifi had tied a great velvet bow around a new pair of embroidered gloves, and Mr. Rousseau had left me a tiny box containing a lovely bracelet of venetian beads. I spent the morning hours quite happily trying on my new things and perusing my new books. Before I knew it, the morning was gone, and Madame Fifi was reminding me to dress for dinner. She said, "Oh, and make it something nice, ma cherie." This was my first hint that Mr. Westley was expecting company for our Christmas meal. I had been a bit apprehensive about filling an entire evening's worth of conversation with my stoic Uncle, but in nowise was I prepared to be greeted by Julien Fortescue and his father when I entered the dining room. I nearly turned on my heels at the very sight of Julien handing his coat to Madame Fifi. Quickly, and to Madame Fifi's bewilderment, I took the coats from her with a, "Let me get these," and off I went before she could protest. I scurried to the guest room and shut myself inside, dropping down onto the bed amongst the wool coats--Julien's smelled of musky cologne. How would I ever tolerate an entire meal with the Fortescues? I sat up and tried to relax. Surely I would not be missed for a few more minutes whilst I stalled. I took the coats to the closet to hang them up, when I noticed a woman's hat box perched on the shelf above the rack. It seemed an odd sort of thing for my uncle to keep. Curious, and keen to delay my return to the dining room a bit longer, I pulled the box down to inspect it. Upon lifting the lid I found it full of dusty envelopes. I picked one off the top of the stack and opened it. It was an old, faded Christmas card--dated 11 December 1885. Maisie, it was from my mother--to Mr. Westley. It read:

Dear Charles,

I know it has been some time, almost a year. I daresay most would remain silent after what you have done. In the spirit of the holiday, I foster hope you will seek penance. I pray you will open a correspondence with me, Charles, but I will have you know: I shall never forgive you for the atrocity you have committed against your own blood.

Elyse Westley

It took a few moments for the impact of the words to sink in--what on earth could it mean? Certainly, it points in a most ominous direction. What atrocity could have been committed by Mr. Westley, against his “own blood”? I told myself there must be a reasonable explanation ... but how could I be sure? The little girl in the portrait, whom I had for some time thought likely to be his daughter--could he actually have harmed her? My high holiday spirits had already suffered a staggering blow upon the arrival of Julien Fortescue, and now the last bit of Christmas cheer in my heart was quite thoroughly snuffed out. So many questions were spinning in my mind, I barely noticed Madame Fifi calling up the stairs after me. I hurriedly hid the card away and replaced the box on its shelf, slipped out of the guest room, and ran straight into a rather scandalized Madame Fifi on the landing. She escorted me back to the dining room rather unceremoniously. I am quite convinced I looked a bit off when I made my entrance. I stole a furtive glance at Mr. Westley and fear began to take hold of me. Never until that moment had I questioned the serendipity that had brought me to Mr. Westley’s house. What had I done in leaving London and coming here? I was so preoccupied with attempting to make sense of the note that I hardly noticed Julien pulling my chair out for me. "Joyeux Noel, Adeline--so very good to see you again,” Julien taunted, with his French, and his lips. I stammered, "Merry Christmas," and at once tucked into the roasted turkey and parsnips. I had not met Julien's father, Admiral Jean Baptiste Fortescue, on the night we spent in Marseilles. He seemed a good bit older than Mr. Westley--in his seventies I would presume. The Admiral introduced himself, "It is so very fine to spend this lovely Christmas afternoon with you, Adeline, and my old friend, Charles." I smiled graciously, "As it is my great pleasure to be in your company." Julien cleared his throat rather garishly. I glanced briefly in Julien's direction to find him grinning in amusement, obviously having detected my gross deception. It did not take long for Admiral Fortescue to talk on what one can only assume is his favourite subject—war. "The Germans could do little to oppose us, our fleet was superior from the start ... " Every now and again Mr. Westley would interject something, "Ah, yes, but the French were ultimately pushed back to the Channel, were they not?" "Were it not for a shortage of coal, Prussia would not have gained the advantage!" Admiral Fortescue was clearly a patriot--albeit a rather drab conversationalist. I could not help but be distracted by Mr. Westley. What secret was he hiding? The Admiral carried on with his story, "Those damn Boches had artillery that could hit our ships from 4,000 yards." I managed to keep my mouth sufficiently occupied with our meal, as not to create an opportune moment for either of the Fortescues to involve me in the discussion. Alas, as soon as I cleared my plate and realised I had devoured all of the food in my immediate reach, Julien asked, "Where is Mr. Steichen this evening?" I felt ill straightaway. I paused to think of the most civil way to excuse Eduard's absence, "I believe he fancies the American wild turkey to our domestic French variety." Julien mused, "I suspect Eduard fancies a mélange of turkey." Maisie, I was so disconcerted at his nerve that I could think of no witty response. The simple truth of his words pained me deeply. I looked around for the butler, "Claude, where is the pudding?" "Mr. Westley requested a bûche de Noël be served for this evening’s guests." I tried to be casual as I whispered to Claude, "Well, let's have it, then." "Certainly, Mademoiselle." Julien was sitting terribly close to me. I tell you, Maisie, he was doing this on purpose--secretly reveling in my discomfort. But I knew Julien's sort--a libertine like Eduard, no doubt. I set out to expose Julien for what he really was--the wealthy, unaccomplished son of a bygone seaman. "Pray tell, Julien, why is it you are not at sea?" Julien leaned in, "We are not at war." I would not leave well enough alone, though, Maise, so I pressed, "So what is it that you spend your days doing, exactly, Julien? Ah, I think I know--attending dinner parties to the subsequent bereavement of all the young female guests." Julien smiled, this seemed to entertain him, "Home is a most welcome change from the front lines of the war in Beijing." "Beijing?" "I trained in Lorient, as an officer, before I deployed with the Fusiliers Marins as part of a special unit of La Royale, to fight on land in the Boxer Rebellion." I was bewildered at the folly of my misguided judgement--I had been so sure that Julien was merely a pretentious and trifling aristocrat, so to find out that he is a pretentious and trifling war hero … I was at a loss. After dessert, I rose from my seat and began to excuse myself, when Mr. Westley, looking on disapprovingly said, "Sit, Adeline." Needless to say, I sat. He adjusted his tone and more light-heartedly instructed Claude to pass around the basket with the Christmas crackers in it to end the meal. I reached into the basket and it was my luck that Julien’s hand, having dipped into the basket at the same time as mine, emerged holding the end of the very cracker I had plucked from amongst the others. "Shall we?" he challenged. I pulled my end of the cracker, and flinched at the loud pop. Julien removed the little note folded inside the cracker. It read: The sweet crimson rose with its beautiful hue is not half so deep as my passion for you. "Lovely," I said, tossing it carelessly on the table. My gaze fell on Mr. Westley, whereupon I felt an immediate return of suspicion and wonderment, and then back on Julien, the suspicion turning to loathing. The Fortescues were wrapping up their conversation, and as they stood to don the coats Madame Fifi had fetched, I slipped out without saying goodbye. I'm sure this will not go without consequence, but I did not care, Maisie. I headed toward my bedroom, but found myself distracted by the smells coming from the kitchen--and it gave me an idea. André and Claude were drinking champagne from the fluted stemware when I entered the kitchen. They greeted me warmly, "Ah! Joyeux Noel, Mademoiselle! Do you see, Claude--it rhymes!" The two began to laugh raucously. I could not help but smile at the scene before me. "It is so good to know you are both enjoying the holiday." André corrected me whilst sloshing his wine about, "The true holiday does not begin until 6 o'clock!" "6 o'clock?" I asked. "Yes, dear, that is when we are off duty to spend the remainder of the evening with our families to attend mass--except for Claude--for he is, and always will be, hopelessly alone!" The two men doubled over with laughter. As it was clear they were sufficiently fuddled, I took the opportunity to see what they knew of the portrait in Mr. Westley's study, "Tell me gentlemen, what do you make of that painting of the child Mr. Westley keeps in that dreary study of his?" Claude was first to respond, "There is quite a bit of mystery surrounding it--we all have our theories." André chimed in, "None of us have been here long enough to know for certain--with the exception of Madame Fifette." "So, Claude, who exactly do you believe the child to be?" "Well, it is clear to me that Mr. Westley is a lover of art, and picked up the piece at the world fair." "Oh, Claude!" André reprimanded, "How can you be so naive? Surely when a man fills his home with nothing but landscapes, a portrait of a young girl is out of place ... The Westley men are known for their hot tempers ... " Claude retorted, "What are you getting at, André?" André hesitated, "It is not for a young woman's ears." I rolled my eyes, "Spare me, André, I beg you." André looked left and then right as if to make sure no one else was within earshot, "Years ago, when I first became employed by Mr. Westley, I was gathering my things to leave for the night, when I overheard Madame Fifette speaking to Mr. Westley in his study. I will never forget, Madame Fifette said, 'You mustn't be so hard on yourself, Charles. You have made terrible mistakes, this is true, but the girl is gone now." André lowered his voice, "Those words can only mean one thing!" Claude looked over in disbelief, "What are you implying, you fool?" André whispered, "Murderer." Claude was in a fit, "Do not listen to that blubbering, drunken imbecile! You make up stories, because you have no interesting ones of your own! Now, go cook something, why don't you!" Again, the men burst out in hysterical laughter. I said good day, but I doubt they even noticed I had gone.

It was growing late. I glanced at the clock in the library--6 o'clock. The grandfather clock in the parlour began to toll. I could hear André and the rest filing out the back door, and panic began to set in--I was alone in the house with Mr. Westley. I hurried to my bedroom--almost running, and locked myself inside. I tried to pass the time reading, but nothing could divert my attention from the note in my pocket. I read it over and over again--trying to find a legitimate explanation for it. Surely this is the reason for the enmity between my father and uncle, at the very least. It was dark out now, and as unsettled as my mind was, I longed for sleep. I slid beneath the bedclothes, and watched the snow fall from my bedroom window. The house was eerily silent without the soft but familiar noises of Madame Fifi and the others attending to their evening duties. I wished I had never come to Paris, Maisie. I still wish it--I wish to be in London with you, and your mad brother--what I would not give for a moment more with that reserved, prideful Peter. The portrait in the study was indeed beginning to haunt me as my mother promised it would. The little girl's face stained my memory, inundating my thoughts without reprieve. André's words echoed in my head: "Murderer." I could think on nothing else. Perchance it was a night not unlike tonight; a cold and quiet, black night. I could not keep myself from hearing her whimper. I tried to push the horrid images away, but still they came: He drags her through the snow, towering over her, gripping her two tiny wrists in one hand, moving in the direction of the woods just behind the garden. Her small cries begin to wane, then perish altogether just beyond the snow-laden pines. Mr. Westley falters back through the garden path, alone.

These thoughts had so distressed me that my heart was pounding and my breathing laboured as if I had witnessed the scene that very moment. And then there was a new sound in the house. The floor-boards were creaking under Mr. Westley's slow, limping pace. He was in the hallway. I lay down, absolutely frozen with fear. I closed my eyes, hoping that I would appear to be sleeping. Mr. Westley was nearly to my door. I was so afflicted with anxiety that I began to tremble. The footsteps stopped in front of my bedroom door, but after a moment, they turned back. I haven't the constitution for such things, Maisie. The remainder of the night was spent fighting off sleep, until at last, I heard the familiar clanking from the kitchen after the sun rose.

Maisie, with all that has transpired, surely you can see that I am in dire need of your encouragement and good sensibility. If nothing else, please write soon, so that I may distract myself from this unhappy place.

Yours,

Adeline Westley

23 rue Saint Paul
Paris

Go on to the next letter, Letter 26 - Theories and Things Overheard

Letter 24 - La Veille de Noël

2009-10-13T06:04:00.017+01:00

Miss Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London

24 December 1902

Dearest Maitland,

Do not fret over me, Maisie, I am so very pleased with the announcement of your engagement to Stuart. Mr. Hill has always been one of my favourites when it comes to Peter's Oxford chums. I know you will have a lifetime of happiness. It is true that I have been a bit downtrodden since Eduard left so suddenly. I know it is silly for me to think on him when he betrayed me so. I cannot help but think Eduard was close to proposing to me, and how, if he had, the two of us would now be reeling in delight whilst planning our nuptials. I suppose it is for the best; Eduard would no doubt have been eyeing his next catch as he led me to the alter. Mr. Rousseau has confirmed Eduard's departure back to America, which is oddly discouraging to me. I had hoped to hear from him in the way of an apology by now. I check the post each day, but the only correspondence I receive are my dear letters from you, Maisie. The more time I have spent contemplating alone, the more I see the stark difference between the way Stuart treasures you and the casual and empty romantic affection Eduard had for me. Logically, I know it is for my benefit that Eduard's true character has been revealed. But my emotions are not governed by logic, and may take some convincing.

I am not surprised to hear of Peter's rash behaviour towards you. It did not make much sense to me at first; but, then, hasn't Peter been making rather a pastime of causing you grief of late? I can hardly bear that Peter has not once written me since I left London--at the least, are we not friends? I know you say he feigns interest in the letters I write to you, but still he remains the ever elusive and aloof Peter Bristow. He infuriates me so! Maisie, do not let your brother spoil this happy time for you.

As for Mr. Rousseau, he has been kind, indeed. I hardly think he has any intention aside from being my friend. I do not accuse Mr. Rousseau of any crime--except, perhaps, an unrealistic hope that the two of us should become an item someday. Poor Mr. Rousseau!

On a more pleasant note, Madame Fifi and the maid have begun to decorate the estate for the holiday. Mr. Westley gave me a little more than his usual in the way of an allowance, and I made an afternoon of shopping. The gas lamps hissed as I walked down the wintry avenue. I pulled my coat in tighter at the collar, and looked down so as to avoid the sight of a happy couple as they strolled by, arm-in-arm, laughing. Aside from being alone, the scene around me in out in the open air was quite enchanting. A crèche, complete with beautiful hand-painted santons, was displayed in each ice-frosted window fronting the row of shoppes. Parishioners stood at the steps of St. Augustin, collecting alms for the poor. I could not help but feel a bit happy despite all my efforts to remain otherwise. I made my way home and was welcomed to a setting quite different from the one I had left: the fireplace in the parlour is draped with evergreen boughs and red velvet ribbon. A small but perfect Christmas tree has been planted on a round mahogany table, and dressed with wooden trinkets, candles and fruit. The air is sweetly scented with orange and clove. Andre is busily cooking something divine in the kitchen. Christmas Eve is here.

I am posting this today. I doubt, however, that I will be able to keep myself from writing you again tomorrow. Merry Christmas to you, my cherished friend.

Yours,

Adeline Westley

23 rue Saint Paul

Paris

Go on to the next letter, Letter 25 - Christmas in Paris

Letter 23 - The Fly in the Ointment

2009-10-11T21:18:00.006+01:00

Miss Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris

30 December 1902

Dearest Addie,

I have never met Eduard, of course, but I had grown so fond of him—observing his many charms through the windows of your lively letters. I had conjured up countless happy images of your future with him, and these little fancies of mine had become quite real to me--so much so that reading your last letter was like a blow, and I can only begin to imagine the loss you are suffering. I must not make light of that loss, I know, but I must also say this: Eduard has proven his unworthiness, and you are the better to be rid of him. There. I hope I am not cruel in saying this, and that you will come to realize that it is quite true, although you may hate me for it as you read this. I feel quite distinctly disappointed in Eduard, and my only admiration for him that remains is for his preference for you, my dearest of friends! I wish I could be there to comfort you as I once did at Cheltenham. I love you so, Addie, and I know that your future will include a gentleman much wiser and more deserving of you than Eduard. I must also tell you that I am quite surprised at the development of your relationship with Mr. Rousseau. Surely you do not confide in him those things closest to your heart? Again, I have not met him, but I find myself doubting his good intentions. Have you forgotten that someone is reporting your personal confidences to your father? I do not wish to take from you the friend who is offering comfort during this difficult time--but be wary, Addie. I could not bear to see you betrayed a second time.

Stuart came to call the morning after I returned from Ambleside. I had not yet decided how to reply to his little note, and I was out in the park, gazing over the pond, attempting to calm my nerves and determine whether or not I was being played for a fool. I suppose Mum told him I had gone to the park, because that is where he found me. Addie, it wasn’t long before I was quite convinced of his sincerity. Fortunately, the park was rather empty due to the early hour, and there were no witnesses to his methods of persuasion. Dearest, it feels wrong for me to be so happy while you are suffering so, but Stuart has been so lovely. He has spent the last fortnight showing me around his favorite haunts in London, so many places I had never even visited before, and we have been enjoying ourselves thoroughly. We spent Christmas Eve with the Hills and Christmas day in the Mews. The only fly in our proverbial ointment has been Peter. He has been a bit surly ever since we announced our engagement to my family. I had asked Stuart to stay for dinner, and he was keen to ask for my hand as soon as Dad had returned from the stables. Dad was very formal (and rather dirty, Stuart not having given him the chance to wash up), but Mum was positively ecstatic. She embraced Stuart warmly, welcomed him to our family, and just stood there looking so overwhelmingly pleased that it was almost comical. Dinner was a pleasant affair, with Mum fussing over Stuart and Dad responding enthusiastically to Stuart’s queries about Master Loxley's newest acquisitions--two fine Morgan mares and a Thoroughbred stallion. Peter was somewhat quieter than usual, particularly in contrast with the way he and Stuart customarily banter with one another. We were nearly finished with our main course when Stuart glanced at me, then turned deliberately to Peter. "Where's the funeral, old man?" he said, "I realize, of course, that I am dismally unworthy of your sister, but let me assure you that I will spend the remainder of my days in valiant efforts to become so." So saying, he turned his full attention to me, and bestowed upon me such a look of adoration that I am sure I flushed scarlet and was quite unable to meet his gaze. Peter maintained a surly silence. Without removing his eyes from my face, he directed his next words to Peter: "Come now, old chap, surely you're not still nursing a grudge against me over the Ashes, no matter how spectacularly my dear cousin and his team defeated England?" Peter was, unaccountably, furious. "This goes much deeper than cricket, you self-satisfied josser," he spat at Stuart, standing up from the table. I was so astonished at this unexpected and passionate response that I was rendered temporarily speechless and was only able to gape at Peter. I thought I saw a brief flash of anger cross Stuart's face before he turned to stare at Peter with an expression of mild surprise. Mum was quite upset and ordered Peter to apologize, which he did, albeit rather sulkily. He excused himself shortly thereafter, shaking hands with Stuart quite civilly before he took his departure. After I had recovered from the shock, I began to feel rather angry with my brother. Addie, hasn't Peter refused to allow me to avoid Stuart whenever he could manage it? Admittedly, I at first believed this to be sadism on his part, since he seemed to find my stressful interactions with Stuart so humorous. But what about our sibling trip for Bonfire Night that turned out to be a rather more crowded event? Hadn't he invited Stuart to Bridgwater, and arranged for us to speak privately during Carnival? Hadn't he encouraged me to go with Stuart to Ambleside? What, after all, was he playing at? Not wishing to spoil the event any further, I kept these thoughts to myself. But I could not help the feeling of resentment toward Peter that was growing ever stronger as the evening progressed. Perhaps Peter is a sadist after all, and wished to encourage my affection for Stuart only to snatch my happiness away from me as soon as it was apparent that my association with Stuart was no longer vexing to me. This particular thought nearly pushed me over the edge, but I managed to hold myself together for Mum's sake, and finish out Stuart's visit pleasantly--at least on the surface. As Stuart bade me goodnight, he laid his cheek on mine and whispered softly, "It's no doubt difficult for someone as protective as your brother to commit his baby sister to the care of another. Peter will come round." And I suppose he is right. But I haven't forgiven Peter yet. His behaviour was not justified, whether it stemmed from a ridiculously childish desire to protect me or not. He's a grown man, and ought to be able to keep his temper in check.

I must post this before Stuart calls, and I haven’t even begun to ready myself—we are going to Covent Garden for the afternoon. But, Addie, I hope you know my thoughts are with you, and although you are surely suffering great pain, there is just as surely happiness in your future. I love you, dearest. Do write soon!

Sincerely,

Maitland Bristow

14 Bathurst Mews
London

Go on to the next letter, Letter 24 - La Veille de Noël

Letter 22 - Rose of Meudon

2009-10-11T00:48:00.005+01:00

Miss Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London

16 December 1902

Dearest Maisie,

I do not know the most fitting way to begin.

Eduard has been so entrenched in his work of late. Most days he is with Auguste Rodin, a new enthusiast of Eduard's work, and a famous sculptor in his own right. My days are, once more, increasingly spent with Monsieur Rousseau--who is eager as a school girl to know all the fine points of my relationship with Eduard. I was rather reserved at first, but have found myself welcoming Rousseau as a confidant. He seems genuinely engaged in our afternoon chats. You can only imagine my delight when Eduard walked in unannounced one afternoon and told me that Rodin was to hold a dinner party in his honor to help to further his career in photography. He explained that Rodin is helping to shape his image to the world, so that the masses will receive him as a respectable artist. The only seemingly odd part was that the party was to be held that very evening! Employing his usual charm, he extended an invitation to Rousseau, as well--who was visibly giddy to be welcomed back into Eduard's now more elite circle of friends. Eduard seemed very rushed and, bestowing a quick peck on my cheek, said he would be back at six o'clock. Monsieur Rousseau cut our lesson short and scurried off to get himself in order for the soiree. I was all too quickly alone in the library. Surely this friend of Eduard's had been planning his dinner party for some time. Why would Eduard wait until now to tell me? Perhaps Rodin planned it in the spirit of a surprise for Eduard.

Madame Fifi was quite put out at the prospect of sending me out in a gown I had already worn, but what choice did she have, really? Eduard came to fetch me, and did not have much to say: "Ah, the blue one." On our way to Rodin's country estate in Meudon, Eduard spoke of nothing but Rodin. I, in turn, inquired about Rodin's family; his wife, and children. Now, Maisie, this was a bit underhanded on my part. You see, Russeau still has many acquaintances in common with Eduard, and has told me on several occasions that Rodin has been with the mother of his son for many years--but has yet to marry her. He also said it is quite well-known that this elderly sculptor is known for his seductive nature and fascination with women. I was beginning to wonder just how much of an influence Rodin was having on Eduard. Eduard paused before answering my question, then, "Well, there is Rose, who is quite dedicated to Auguste. They've been together for years and years and they have a son together. There is also Camille, the young woman he is absolutely enamoured with in Paris." I knew I had to choose my next words carefully, "Poor Rose." Eduard replied nonchalantly, "Oh, Rose is very accustomed to the expressions of an artist, and his need to enliven his imaginations." There was a brief silence. He took my hand, "I am ever so happy to have you, Adeline."

Rodin himself greeted us at the door. He wore a long, dark beard and, like Eduard, took great care in his appearance. His home was simple and unadorned--not as I had pictured it. The table was set beautifully, and it was Rose who tended to all the guests. Rousseau arrived soon after, and was wholly pleased that the number of women at the table rather awkwardly overwhelmed the number of men. Once all the guests were seated, Rodin made the introductions. There was of course Rose, then myself, Eduard to my right. On Eduard’s other side was an utter beauty, Claire, then Genevieve, Marie, Monsieur Rousseau, Camille ... the names began to fade from my consciousness after Camille was named. She was young--about eighteen. Had Rodin actually brought his mistress into his own home? I was appalled and shocked and so many other things. I could hardly imagine the state Rose must have been in! I glanced to my left, at Rose. She was perfectly at ease. She laughed at all the right points in the conversation. She even poured Camille's soup--and did not intentionally spill it in her lap! To say I was disturbed at what I was experiencing is an understatement. I had to calm myself. I recounted the recent conversations Eduard and I had had about marriage, and children. I drew in a slow breath and reminded myself of Eduard's loyalty to me despite his growing notoriety. I smiled, and reached down to find Eduard’s hand beneath the table linens. I needed to feel his soft, warm hand in mine. Maisie, as I looked down I saw Claire's hand, placed neatly on Mr. Steichen's knee. I felt my gut wrench in pain. I became dizzy with embarrassment--I looked about the room--did everyone know but me? I felt faint. It was quite clear I was not enough to enliven Eduard's imaginations any further. I turned to Eduard and said softly, "I will not be your Rose." I quietly slid back my chair and walked to the end of the table to whisper in Rousseau's ear, "You will take me home immediately." He instantly got to his feet and together we walked out. Eduard stood and called, "Adeline!" On the way home, Rousseau was a kind friend, "Tell me every detail ..."

Suffice it to say, I am weary. Eduard has not once tried to contact me. There are rumors he is planning to return to America. I wish I had some brighter news for you in Ambleside. I wish that I could use my wit to help you to decode Stuart Hill's strange way of getting your attention. My mind is nothing short of useless; all I do is think of Eduard. I cannot sleep. Madame Fifi has said she will be calling on the doctor tomorrow. I will write again soon.

Yours,

Addie

23 rue Saint Paul
Paris

Go on to the next letter, Letter 23 - The Fly in the Ointment

Letter 21 - Albatross

2009-10-11T00:47:00.005+01:00

Miss Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris

15 December 1902

Dearest Addie,

I just arrived home this afternoon and found your letter waiting for me, a perfect welcome home gift. Darling, your portrait is exquisite! I think it nearly does you justice! Eduard has a finely honed eye for beauty, indeed. Peter caught me looking at it, Addie, and was quite keen to find out who had taken the photograph, although he feigned a casual interest. “That’s Miss Westley, is it?” he said, all too carefully averting his eyes. “Yes,” I said. I could tell he was frustrated with my ungenerous response, but he was quiet for several moments longer as I read your letter. Finally, he said, “I suppose it was commissioned by her uncle, then?” You know how I love to tease my brother, Addie. “I suppose,” was all I said. He was all but hopping up and down with frustration, I could tell by the vein popping out on his left temple. I stifled a giggle as I carefully left your portrait on the mantle and casually voiced my intention to go upstairs and unpack my things. I paused at the base of the stairs and peeked back into the sitting room to see if Peter had taken the bait. He had, of course, and was so busily engaged in examining the photograph that he didn’t seem to notice my spying on him at all. Addie, it could not have been easy for you to confide in me regarding your feelings for my brother. I did notice you leave during the graduation party, although I hadn’t the faintest idea that Peter, when he excused himself a moment later, had left to find you. I know I abuse him endlessly in my letters, but I do not blame him for loving you, nor you for wanting him. Still, it is a good thing you are taken, Addie. I would not wish my brother to attempt to court you and have his heart broken upon realizing at last that he is entirely incapable of handling such a fine creature as yourself, since he can’t even seem to handle your likeness with any sort of dignity.

But I must tell you about my last evening in Ambleside. Stuart asked me to walk with him to the High Sweden Bridge, and I obliged. It had become something of a nightly ritual during the holiday. We would walk the half mile to the bridge, all the while Stuart ragging me ceaselessly about my literary diversions, while I enjoyed his company under the pretext of defending the femininity of scholarly pursuits. I had been reading Coleridge, of course, and Stuart was pelting me with ridiculous questions, such as, “Perhaps you could illuminate me, Miss Bristow, as to why that old sea dog insisted upon wearing the dead bird around his neck.” As we arrived at the bridge and paused before going back to the cottage, I couldn’t help but reflect on the fact that it would likely be the last walk we would take together, certainly the last in Ambleside, and I had little hope that Stuart would continue the exercise once we had returned to London. Addie, the prospect of losing these little jaunts with Stuart was so disheartening that it frightened me. I had come to accept that Stuart was fond of me, but that acceptance only made me more aware of the fact that I wished for more than fondness from Stuart. It seemed to me as if the fortnight we had spent together was a lovely dream I was about to wake from. Snow had fallen earlier that morning and lay in soft swells of white in every direction across the fells. The sky was white, and snow had just started to float gently down upon us as we began our return trip. Stuart was gazing around at the peaceful countryside with a rather bemused expression on his face, so I was left to my thoughts. I was pondering all the way back to the farm, and so absorbed in my own bleak musings that it startled me when the steady crunch of Stuart’s footfalls in the snow stopped abruptly. A little afraid that he might have taken ill, I turned quickly to see him simply standing there, outlined against the surrounding white, looking at me. He spoke just as suddenly. “I lied to you that evening in Hyde Park, you know.” I knew perfectly well what night he was referring to—how could I forget?--but I tossed my head as flippantly as I could and said, “Whatever do you mean, Stu? We’ve spent many evenings in the park, and I’m sure you wouldn’t stoop to lying, it’s so unbecoming.” I made to continue walking, but he stopped me with a hand on my shoulder, and turned me toward him. Addie, I thought for sure my heart would gallop right out of my chest. He rested one hand on my arm, and lifted the other to tilt my chin so that I had to lower my lashes to keep him from looking into my eyes. “Maisie,” he said softly, “I did lie to you. I never planned to rethink my intentions to propose to you.” And then he kissed me, Addie! Right there in the garden! I was so conflicted, I couldn’t decide whether to slap him or bury my face in his coat. It was so unexpected. At long last I raised my eyes to his, and then quickly looked away. The way he was looking at me, Addie, and the intensity in his eyes … my limbs seemed to melt out from under me and he caught me around the waist to keep me from falling. Someone called from the farmhouse just then, and I shook Stuart off and ran inside. It was the most extraordinary feeling–-as if my blood had turned to quicksilver in my veins. I went directly to bed, but was unable to sleep until the wee hours of the morning. The scene in the garden played over and over again in my over-excited consciousness, until at last I fell asleep and dreamed that Stuart and Peter were walking side by side out on the frozen expanse of Windermere, dressed alike in dark overcoats like Stuart’s, looking almost like twins, except that Stuart wore a hideously decayed albatross carcass like a mantle on his shoulders. It was an unsettling dream, and I awoke feeling very strange indeed, until the memory of Stuart’s kiss the night before came rushing back and filled me with warmth and an almost feverish sense of anticipation. Addie, I wanted so desperately to see him again, but at the same time I was afraid to set foot outside my room in case he might be waiting for me. I dawdled over my dressing and packing for as long as I reasonably could, then made my way down to the dining room in a state of nervousness so advanced that I nearly jumped out of my skin when Emily asked me what had taken me so long. I’m not sure what I replied, as I was altogether too engrossed in scanning the hall, the dining room, and the kitchen for signs of Stuart. I needn’t have bothered, however, as Miss Brown came in from the garden a few moments later and, upon seeing me standing in the hall with Emily, hurried straight over to me. “Young Master Hill wished me to convey his regrets that he could not say his farewells in person,” she said, “He left early this morning to help Master Hill attend to some last minute business in town. He left you this.” And she handed me a small, ivory-colored envelope. Disappointment and relief warred within me for a moment before I managed to pull myself together and slip the envelope into my jacket pocket, Emily eyeing it rather suspiciously before it disappeared from view. What with all the bustle of preparation for the journey home, I was unable to find a private moment to open Stuart’s note until we had boarded the train and were speeding steadily toward London. Emily was buried in the latest issue of The Lady, and I pretended to look at the passing landscape as I quietly extracted Stuart’s message. It read:

Dear Miss Bristow,

I am awaiting your answer.

Yours respectfully,
Stuart Hill

Addie, how I wish for your advice! But I fear this cannot wait. I shall write soon.

Sincerely,

Maitland Bristow

14 Bathurst Mews
London

Go on to the next letter, Letter 22 - Rose of Meudon

Letter 20 - First Night in Ambleside

2009-10-02T21:27:00.007+01:00

Miss Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris

2 December 1902

Dearest Addie,

Having spent one full day with the Hills at Ambleside, I have undergone quite a change of perspective from my previous outlook for the holiday. As it turns out, Richard Hill is not in the least homely or unfortunate, and hasn't an ounce of trouble securing a dance partner for himself. In fact, he was so well supplied with female admirers for the gathering last night that I was obliged to take Stuart as my partner in the dances. I began to suspect one of two things. Either Stuart Hill is so well versed in the most effective ways to fluster me that he arranged things on purpose to befuddle me, or (and I knew I should hardly let myself hope) Stuart harbours a rather well-hidden affection for me. These two alternatives I pondered as I danced the forms, in and out of Stuart's capable arms. As we parted for the evening, he kissed my hand and held it for a moment longer than was strictly necessary before letting it slip from his. My inner conflict and confusion must have shown on my face, Addie, because he was smiling slightly as he said, "I tried to tell you at Carnival, I honestly did." After which he tapped one finger on the end of my nose and then turned to leave. I ask you, Addie, what was I supposed to make of that?

Sincerely,

Maitland Bristow

Nook End Farm
Ambleside, Westmorland
England

Go on to the next letter, Letter 21 - Albatross

Eduard's Portrait of Addie

2009-08-20T03:52:00.003+01:00

Letter 19 - Addie's Portrait

2009-08-20T03:05:00.007+01:00

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

Go on to the next letter, Letter 20 - First Night in Ambleside

Letter 18 - Bonfire Night at Bridgwater

2009-08-15T16:39:00.007+01:00

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

Go on to the next letter, Letter 19 - Addie's Portrait

Letter 17 - Eduard Steichen

2009-08-13T01:40:00.008+01:00

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

Go on to the next letter, Letter 18 - Bonfire Night at Bridgwater

Letter 16 - What Stuart Wanted

2009-08-12T06:25:00.006+01:00

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

Go on to the next letter, Letter 17 - Eduard Steichen

Letter 15 - An Admirer

2009-08-09T00:50:00.006+01:00

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

Go on to the next letter, Letter 16 - What Stuart Wanted

Letter 14 - The Note Under the Pew

2009-08-08T00:21:00.008+01:00

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

Go on to the next letter, Letter 15 - An Admirer

Letter 13 - The Shaming of Rousseau

2009-08-03T21:24:00.007+01:00

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

Go on to the next letter, Letter 14 - The Note Under the Pew

Letter 12 - Dinner with Sir Rothschild

2009-08-02T22:31:00.008+01:00

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

Go on to the next letter, Letter 13 - The Shaming of Rousseau

Letter 11 - Obligation

2009-08-01T22:43:00.008+01:00

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

Go on to the next letter, Letter 12 - Dinner with Sir Rothschild

Letter 10 - A Dinner Invitation

2009-07-30T21:04:00.006+01:00

Miss Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris

29 August 1902

Dearest Addie,

I am so sorry for your suffering! Here I am at home, with my family around me, where everything is safe and familiar (albeit dull), and I complain to you about being lonely. It is a symptom of my selfishness that I can think of my own troubles when you are truly alone (albeit in glamorous Paris!) in a country of foreigners. It is a symptom of my silliness that I should envy your amorous French tutor bearing romantic gifts, and the direness of your situation concerning that horrible man who intends to force you to marry him. It’s only, sometimes I wish for excitement, Addie, even the unpleasant variety – anything to break up the monotony of my days. I am sorry, dear Addie. I will pray for you to find a way to come home.

You are not good enough for Peter?! I must insist that you abandon this nonsense tout de suite. If my brother chooses to make an arse of himself, following Miss Highmore about like a besotted hound on a leash, so be it. But do not let it reflect on you. How can I make this clear to you, Addie? You are worth any number of vapid Frances Highmores – and I beg of you not to forget it.

As for the abominable Mr. Rothschild, you are right, of course, Addie. I should have inquired as to the married name of Luc Bellefeuille’s daughter. I suppose I was too appalled by his tantrum to think logically enough to ask details about the unfortunate lady whose reputation he was defaming. He really was quite improper; Dad was furious with him. Your letter came in good time, Addie, because I was on the point of indignantly refusing an invitation to that very gentleman’s house (if gentleman he can be called). Mr. Rothschild sent a note by way of apology, as it were (his excuse, of all things, was the heat of the day), and invited me to a dinner party tomorrow evening. I must accept the invitation, now, of course, and hope that the other guests (and the cool of the evening) might make for an environment in which my question can be answered with less vulgarity. Dad will never allow it, of course, so I will have to be mysterious as to my plans for tomorrow evening … perhaps Peter can be coaxed into covering for me.

I shall close this letter and post it right away, and I shall write you again day after tomorrow and relate any information I gain from Mr. Rothschild at the dinner party. Take heart, Addie! If you have nothing else, you do have a friend in London who finds it quite effortless to love you.

Sincerely,

Maitland Bristow

14 Bathurst Mews
London

P.S. I expect Ms. Beale would have gone into fits one hundred times over if she were privy to my secret thoughts. Mr. Rousseau, as exotic and clever as he may be, cannot hope to satisfy you if he cannot captivate you with … conversation. – M.B.

Go on to the next letter, Letter 11 - Obligation

Letter 9 - Mr. Rousseau

2009-07-30T21:02:00.008+01:00

Miss Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London

19 August 1902

Dearest Maitland,

I am afraid I have only news that has depressed my spirits. I received a letter from my mother and it alone is enough to cause me to mourne. She writes:

My dear child,

It does my heart well to know of your safety. It is urgent for you to be aware that the man whom your father brought home for you to marry still intends to collect on your father's debts. Adeline, you must never return to London. As for Mr. Westley's portrait, pay the little girl no mind, lest you be haunted by her as I am.

Mother

I am more resolute than ever to discover the mystery of the little girl in the painting. Mother should know I am not so easily placated. Whatever could she know of that little girl? And what of the man in London? To never return to England is unthinkable. I know now, my heart is sure, that I may as well be dead to both my father and my mother. Am I truly so hard to love, Maisie?

You might think I would have something of good cheer to recount, but there is only more disappointment. Mr. Westley has insisted I be tutored in French whilst I am here in Paris. My tutor, Mr. Vaughn Rousseau, is a senior student at La Sorbonne. He is handsome enough, although he seems a decidedly rigid man. He is never late; he says, to be late is like unto stealing--only it is the stealing of another's time. His English is quite good, though--I am quite certain he conjugates verbs in his spare time! Dull as he may be, I had thought it such a gift to find a friend in him, until it became clear he means to court me. Always now, he greets me with daisies or a box from Le Chocolatier. What is worse, I believe Mr. Westley to be encouraging the situation. I have caught the glances he and Mr. Rousseau exchange, and it is insulting to my person that the both of them assume I am not keen enough to decipher it. If I ever find myself in such a malleable circumstance as to wed a man after the manner of Mr. Rousseau, I would likely be found dead the following morning; having been bored to death the entirety of my wedding night! Oh, Maisie! What would Ms. Beale say to such language? It cannot be helped. I do not fit into the confines of French high society, no matter how much Mr. Westley should want it. No doubt he has felt the need to step in, since I apparently have made my reputation as the prudish lady of London who does not wish to be kissed when greeted.

I am sorry your visit with Sir Rothschild was all for naught. Perhaps Mr. Bellefeuille's daughter can be found.

As for Peter, I suppose he has made his choice indeed. Even if he did have some secret affection for me, it is apparent that I cannot compare with Frances Highmore and her connexions. It would seem it is Peter that is too good for me--the too bold Westley girl with no inheritance. After all, he could not even manage to return a simple, "hello." Maisie, my heart has taken more than it can bear.

Yours,

Adeline Westley

23 rue Saint Paul
Paris

Go on to the next letter, Letter 10 - A Dinner Invitation

Letter 8 - Wealth and Women

2009-07-29T06:23:00.006+01:00

Miss Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris

8 August 1902

Dearest Addie,

I considered telling Peter you find him dashing purely for my own entertainment, but decided against it. Addie, it really would not be prudent to feed his ego, nor to encourage him if he intends to pursue you. Peter was sweet when we were girls, but he is not the boy he used to be. I can scarcely believe he is the same lad who used to take us fishing (if you will) on the Thames during the summer holidays. I expect most lads of fourteen imagine they know everything there is to know, but Peter should have learnt better by now, and he hasn’t. Which is why it was extremely satisfying when Australia won the Ashes. And it is also the reason I simply cannot recommend my dear, misguided brother to you, however I may love him. In truth, Addie, he does not deserve you. Further, Miss Highmore, though I have little love for her, does not deserve your hatred. Miss Highmore’s conversational arts are lacking, but her social connections are desirable indeed. Peter made his choice, and if we lose him, the fault is his own. Perhaps I am too hard on Peter, but he has been insufferable lately, and his ingratitude toward Dad upsets me no end.

But on to more interesting events! I must tell you about my visit to Sir Rothschild! It pains me a bit to write “Sir” before his name, Addie. I cannot begin to imagine Her Majesty Queen Victoria conferring such an honour upon that greedy little man. I enlisted Dad to my cause, and he accompanied me on my visit to 73 Palace Court, which is only just across the park, quite close to the Mews. We were met graciously enough, and issued into a fine parlour to wait for our host. When Mr. Rothschild (for he shall get no more “Sir” from me!) entered the room I was sure he was the butler, come to offer refreshments. And yet, alas! ... no tray. He introduced himself and inquired as to how he could be of service. Dad proceeded to explain our errand, and our host was quite keen to discuss “Monsieur Bellefeuille,” but knew nothing of our mysterious Rabbit. He explained that he had been very good friends with “Luc” (for that is Bellefeuille’s given name) as a young man, that they had attended a boarding school together in France. He told us all about the school, called Louis-le-Grand, and it was quite interesting at first. But it soon became apparent that Mr. Rothschild was interested in two things only--wealth and women. The man was married seven times! He went on endlessly about the selfishness of Luc Bellefeuille, who apparently did not will to Mr. Rothschild any part of his rather substantial estate. At length he started insulting the recipients of the aforementioned wealth, Bellefeuille’s only daughter and granddaughter, and he used such language that Dad was compelled to make our excuses so we could escape. It was an interesting but uncomfortable visit. And, in the end, fruitless. I am no nearer to discovering the identity of Rabbit or the one who adored her so.

I must go help Mum with supper, but I will write again soon. I nearly asked your mother about the painting of the child at church, but your father was looking so surly that I lost my nerve. Let me know what she has to say on the subject in her reply to your letter. I miss you, dearest!

Sincerely,

Maitland Bristow

14 Bathurst Mews
London

P.S. Peter favored McLaren for England, and took the train to Manchester to watch the final tests for the Ashes. I should very much liked to have seen his face when England lost--Stuart says it was rather like a baby whose rattle has been snatched from his hand. I am quite sure Stuart is biased, as a distant cousin of his, Clem Hill, played for Australia. But I take great pleasure in the image regardless.

-M.B.

Go on to the next letter, Letter 9 - Mr. Rousseau

Letter 7 - Of Parents and Children

2009-07-28T05:00:00.005+01:00

Miss Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London

23 July 1902

Dearest Maitland,

I should like nothing more than to switch places with you. I should be quite pleased to argue with Peter in the park. Why, arguing with Peter is one of my most favourite pastimes! Remember our school days, not so many years removed? Peter always had the answers to all the world's questions, didn't he? My fondest memories are of the summers when we were just girls and of the time I spent with you and your family. I remember one warm day when the three of us (you, Peter and I) lay on the lawn daydreaming of what the future would hold as we laughed at the folly of our own whimsical ideas. I daresay Peter has grown into himself since those days--the two of us have, as well, haven't we? You are much too harsh to compare Peter to an arthropod! Peter can be quite dashing. I'm quite certain Miss Highmore does not challenge the all-knowing Peter, and it tickles me to think of their lacking conversations. She no doubt fills his head with mindless gossip and talk of tea parties and such. I hate her for taking him from us!

I'm really not meant for this life in Paris, Maisie. You would be much better suited to attending balls and being adorned in fine things. I can see you now, dancing with Julien, coyly reprimanding his casual advances, and thereby making him chase you all the more! I, on the other hand, ran off like a silly child. Should you ever come to France I would make arrangements for the two of you to meet. I'm sure the passionate Julien would be quite charmed with your fairness and allure, all cleverness aside!

Also, I wrote to my mother concerning the child. 'Twas a difficult letter to write, indeed; full of apologies for my leaving, and begging her forgiveness in the matter. I casually inquired if she knew anything about the portrait of the young child in Mr. Westley's home. I asked how father was, if he was very much enraged by my leaving (although I feel sure I already know the answer to this). We shall see.

I am ever so anxious to hear of your visit with Mr. Rothschild. For now, I shall continue to explore Paris and try to find some happiness in this summer without you. And lastly, do make sure to tell Peter that I stand squarely on the side of his mother concerning the Australians.

Yours,

Adeline Westley

23 rue Saint Paul
Paris

Go on to the next letter, Letter 8 - Wealth and Women

Letter 6 - Exile

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Miss Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris

11 July 1902

Dearest Addie,

It all sounds so terribly romantic on paper, but I suppose the reality of crying your eyes out at a Paris ball is not something I should envy. I do, though, Addie. I know I shouldn’t, but I envy your exotic Julien and your exquisite ball gown and even your puzzle of an uncle. Do you ever wish we could switch places? Would you rather be sitting in the park in an everyday brown frock, as I am, after a long and tedious day of listening to Peter and Mum argue about the reputed talent of certain cricket players (Mum insists that the Australians will take home the Ashes this year, Peter begs to differ), writing a letter while the sun sets over the pond? I suppose it is better than being exiled, and I do love London, but my life here is so fantastically ordinary that I find myself daydreaming about the lights of Paris, sultry evenings and summer gowns, and all the fun we could have if we were together.

I’m sure Miss Hoity-Toity Highmore would be scandalized if she knew she had a rival for Peter’s affections, but in all truth she is much more boring than she is beautiful or clever. Not that Peter values cleverness in a girl, until recently, it seems. Perhaps he is tiring of the slow and insidious torture that is an evening of conversation with Frances Highmore. At any rate, the idea of you and Peter together is endlessly hilarious to me. All I can imagine is a great, gangly insect walking hand in hand with a perfect porcelain doll. Besides, Peter may have better taste than I once suspected, but, honestly, if his nose gets any higher in the air he will suffocate for lack of atmosphere. I did say hello to him for you and he looked quite startled over it, the shock dissolving into a sort of guilty nervousness until he finally mumbled something about, “really should be going,” and exited the room. Addie, it is the best entertainment I’ve had since you left me here alone.

In light of my current state of perpetual boredom, I am delighted to have a destination to attach to my quest for the identity of Rabbit and her admirer. I shall plan a visit to Sir Rothschild forthwith and relate the adventure in my next letter.

Addie, I find myself envying even your discomfiture at being doubly kissed by a handsome French gentleman. I am lonely as ever.

Sincerely yours,

Maitland Bristow

14 Bathurst Mews
London

Go on to the next letter, Letter 7 - Of Parents and Children

The painting in Mr. Westley's study.

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Letter 5 - The Ball in Marseille

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Miss Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London

30 June 1902

Dear Maisie,

Your Peter was looking at my letters? I'm quite sure you are mistaken. I've had word of Miss Highmore and her family all the way here in Paris. I'm sure she's everything Peter could hope for. Just to imagine Peter and myself together would be . . . it doesn't matter. The fact remains that I'm nothing more than a runaway, Maisie.

As for the ball, I shall leave nothing out! The seamstress and Madame Fifi spent hours picking out fabric and embellishments for the dress. The neckline was uncomfortably low and the corset tight, as usual. The hairdresser arranged my hair so that it fell in a waterfall of curls around my shoulders. We arrived in Marseille to Admiral Jean Baptiste Fortescue's mansion. The Admiral himself is a pompous old naval man, said to have served under Napoleon III. Mr. Westley and I entered the grande ballroom to find lively music and dancing already underway. The moment I entered the ballroom I was shocked at the boldness of the men with the women. They stood so close, whispering and laughing as they danced.

As I stood in the doorway a handsome young man walked straight up to me and, without warning, possessed my face with both of his hands and kissed me on each cheek. This is not in jest! I'm sure my colouring matched the heavy rouged cheeks of the other women! The young man seemed to notice my unrest and I said to him with my hand on my cheek, "I'm sorry, sir, but we are not accustomed to such familiarities in London." The admiral's son (for that was who was causing this great disturbance within me) then took my hand and kissed it and re-introduced himself to me as Julien Fortescue, no doubt trying to rectify his mistake (while only making it worse, naturally). I said I was pleased to make his acquaintance and off he went to greet his other feminine guests. Oh, Maisie! I felt like such a ninny!

I daresay my pride was a bit wounded at the sight of the young Mr. Fortescue greeting all of his guests in that very same manner, even the men. Madame Fifi says it is but a customary French hello, nothing more. Near the end of the evening my eyes caught Julien's and before I could look away he started making his way toward me. He asked for a dance and although I had every intention of denying him, before I could say no he had his arm about my waist and was sliding his other hand up my arm to meet my hand. He drew me in closer until I could feel him breathing. He asked in his broken English how I liked Paris, as if his advances meant nothing. All at once I knew I did not want to be in his arms a moment longer. The emotions of the past few weeks all came together at once, mingling with the intensity of the night. Feeling a man so close, but not having him be the one that I want, missing my terrible family, missing London and missing you, I excused myself and ran off to the balcony. The tears came in a constant flow. What I wanted more than anything was to be rescued from this place and come home. Then I heard the slow and steady pace of Mr. Westley coming to fetch me to take me home. Upon seeing my condition he said, "What can I do to ease your burdens, Adeline?" Knowing it would be unwise to return to London so soon, I said, "Do you know much about the family who occupied the Bellefeuille Estate in Dorset?" Mr. Westley looked down at the ground and replied, "I shall see what I can find." The next morning I found a note on my pillow (in rather atrocious handwriting) that read:

Bellefeuilles of Dorset --

write Sir Hugh Rothschild
73 Palace Court, Kensington
London

I miss you without measure and hope this little clue can help you to find your Rabbit. I shall write my mother as you suggested about the child. And do say hello to Peter for me.

Yours,

Adeline Westley

23 rue Saint Paul
Paris

Go on to the next letter, Letter 6 - Exile

"To my little Rabbit ... "

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Maisie's Letter, page 1

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Maisie's Letter, page 2

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Letter 4 - Admiration

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Miss Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris

11 June 1902

My dear Addie,

I suppose you are not completely mollified by a new dress,
but aren’t you at least a teensy bit excited? I would
never ask Dad to present me to society, he would laugh
and tell me I’d have to trade in my books for socialite
rags. And of course I don’t want to be just pretty and
petted and admired for my clothes . . . but I can’t help
liking beautiful things. You must tell me all about the
fitting - Emily Carrington says the new Paris gowns
are divine (and she would know). Will you dance with
French young men, then? Are there many English boys
in Paris? Students, perhaps? I wouldn’t object to a
dance with a French fellow, but the conversation might
be a bit lacking. If only I could come to Paris and
attend the ball with you! I am still scheming, but I
haven’t come up with any brilliant devices yet.

I wonder if you could find out about the little girl in
the picture by writing to your mother? Your father is more
likely to know, but I expect he is not particularly pleased
with you at the moment. He may not know himself, if
he and his brother parted ways before the child existed.
Mysteries abound! I have not made any progress discov-
ering the previous owner of the old copy of Wuthering
Heights. I made a pilgrimage down to Holywell and
asked the proprietor at the shoppe, and he was good enough
to tell me it was obtained from the Dorset estate of a
gentleman called Bellefeuille, a foreigner who had only
lived at the estate for six or seven years. I suppose he
spoke English, but somehow I don’t think it could have
been him. He probably acquired it from the writer of
the inscription, or from Rabbit herself. I’ll have to do
more digging - and heaven knows I’ll have the time.

Another little mystery, and this will amuse you, I think -
yesterday I caught Peter perusing your little stack of
letters to me. I was so shocked I didn’t even scold him
for invading my privacy. He dropped the one he was
holding at once and seemed to be pretending to look
for something else, then abruptly left my presence,
muttering something about “where is that invitation
Frances sent over.” Addie, as soon as I recovered from
the shock I laughed myself silly. Why, after all, would
Peter be looking for his invitation on my dresser? My
best guess is that the illustrious Miss Highmore, however
popular she may be among London’s high society, is not
quite as interesting to Peter as a certain Miss Westley
of Paris. If so, Peter is not so much of a lost cause
as I had come to believe, Frances Highmore to the
contrary notwithstanding. After all, even a self-important
graduate of Oxford must have some redeeming qualities.
Perhaps Peter’s saving grace is his secret admiration
for you.

Addie, I’m so glad we can write one another, but it is
hardly enough. I miss you every day, and can hardly turn
a step in London without remembering one of our many
adventures in these streets. Cheltenham seems ages ago,
although it has been less than two months since graduation.
Don’t forget me once you are inducted into the heady
swirl of glamour that is French society. I am lonely in
the crowds at all our old haunts. Write soon, dear.

Yours sincerely,

Maitland Bristow

14 Bathurst Mews
London

Go on to the next letter, Letter 5 - The Ball in Marseille

Addie's Letter

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Letter 3 - The Painting in the Study

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Miss Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London

31 May 1902

Dearest Maisie,

To think, the cheek of that Mr. Hall! He always was a rather raucous young fellow. All the same, you must find some flattery in his attention to you. Heaven knows any other girl from Cheltenham would.

As for me, I spend most of my time wandering the grand halls of Mr. Westley's large estate. There is one room I find to be a bit curious, though. It's quite empty, Maisie, all except a sturdy chair and a single portrait of a very young girl, a child of only a few years, which sits on the mantle above the fireplace. Upon examining it a bit closer I was hastily shown the way out by the maid. She was quite rigid in informing me that the room was Mr. Westley's private study, and I shan't be allowed to return to it. Seems a rather odd study. No books, nor even a desk to speak of. Perhaps there is a soft spot in Mr. Westley's unfeeling heart after all. I cannot help but wonder, was it a child lost to consumption? Maybe she lives still, somewhere unbeknownst to any of us along with a former Missus Westley? 'Tis a mystery not unlike that of your "Rabbit." However do you propose to find the author of the inscription? Well, one thing is for certain, if anyone might detect its origins that would be you, my dear Maisie!

My other news is that Mr. Westley means to present me to society as his niece at a ball that is to be attended by some prominent generals with which my uncle conducts his business affairs. Madam Fifette (or Fifi as I call her, which drives her mad) is the head mistress of the house and has already arranged for a fitting for my dress.

Do not delay in responding as you are my only comfort and solace.

Yours,

Adeline Westley

23 rue Saint Paul
Paris

Go on to the next letter, Letter 4 - Admiration

Letter 2 - Inscription

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Miss Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris

17 May 1902

Dearest Adeline,

Oh, Addie, how can you stand it? Every time I think of your father I just want to smash his smug face! And I know it’s not ladylike, and Ms. Beale would have apoplexy if she knew I was thinking any such thing, but I can’t help it. I hate him! I hate him! How could he do this to you? And I’m selfish, Addie, because I hate him all the more for taking you away from me. I can’t imagine this summer without you. Peter will tease my life out for being home all day long, and I have no hope of convincing dad to let me come to see you. At least you are safe from that horrible old man. Dad warned me not to cause a scene at church when I saw your family, and I bit my lip the entire sermon to keep from standing up and pointing at him and calling him a bastard to his face! I’m sorry to talk so rudely of your family, Addie, but you know I love you. I miss you so! You must write me as often as you can, and tell me of life in Paris.

Life here is boring at best, and not worth relating except for the little adventure I had two nights ago. Dad and Mum and Peter had gone out for the evening to a play at the Britannia, so I betook myself to my favorite haunt on Holywell Street Strand, the secondhand booksellers with no name on the shoppe. Dad had expressly forbidden my going out alone, but you know how I hate to be cooped up, and I wasn’t going to sit and watch some silly play with Peter and his new girl-about-town (Frances Highmore of the Hoxton Highmores, and her name is the least obnoxious thing about her). Anyhow, I was browsing amongst the shoppe’s newest acquisitions from an estate sale and I found a dog-eared copy of Wuthering Heights, an early copy by “Ellis Bell.” You know how I love the story, and this particular copy seemed to have a story of its own, so I bought it (for much less than it is worth, I daresay) and went straightway to the park to peruse it further. I found, much to my delight, that it was inscribed with a sweet, cryptic note on the blank half of a page near the end of the book: “To my little Rabbit, whom I love with all my heart, and who holds my future in the depths of her fathomless eyes.” It is signed illegibly and dated “Oct. 1848.” How charming, don’t you think? I was immediately absorbed with the idea of discovering who this “Rabbit” is, and who loved her so much. I was thus distracted when I gradually became aware of a group of revelers making their way through the park. Indeed, it was now dusk and I could hardly see to read, so I got up to make my way home to the Mews. This action placed me in the direct path of the aforementioned revelers, and as they gained on me I realized that Stuart Hill was among them. His voice is difficult to mistake, as you might well remember. I dropped my head and increased my pace, but they had seen me and called out for me to join them if I would. I wouldn’t, of course, but this was hardly a polite way to respond, so I feigned not to have heard and kept walking. Stuart must have recognized me, because he called out, “Ah, the lady is an intellectual, and not to be disturbed – see, she carries a book.” Of course he makes sport of all the girls who attended Cheltenham, and one might say he can hardly be blamed for adopting his father’s prejudices when he had no mother to raise him properly, but, Addie, I was so mortified I couldn’t speak. To be mocked in such a way, in public, no less, just made my blood boil. And so I regained my voice, and turned around to face him, and did not reign in my temper as I should have. I called him a dotty old man, and said that if he had any modern sensibility he would know that an educated wife was a treasure he could only hope to aspire to. What possessed me, I don’t know, and from the moment it left my lips I regretted it and I am sure I went scarlet as a beet. His reponse was nearly the death of me. He smiled and said, “Well, then, I suppose I’ll have to rethink my intentions to propose to you, dear lady.” It was too much to be borne, so I just turned and ran for it, I am heartily ashamed to tell you. If I ever meet him again, I will likely drop dead from shear humiliation.

My dearest Addie, I must finish up so I can post this today. I don’t know if I will survive without you, so we must wrack our educated brains and come up with a way to get Dad to let me come to Paris. I miss you more than I can tell. Write soon.

Yours sincerely,

Maitland Avery Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London

Go on to the next letter, Letter 3 - The Painting in the Study