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
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
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
Letter 47 - Performance
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
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
Letter 46 - Rabbit
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
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
Narrative 45 - March Sunshine
(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.
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.
Letter 44 - Of God and Angels
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."
"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
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
Letter 43 - Primula Auricula
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
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
Narrative 42 - Baisers de Vierge
(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.
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.
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