Miss Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London
15 May 1903
Dear Maisie,
First and foremost, you must forgive me. I did not mean any offense in proposing that Stuart may have had a deeper involvement with Mr. Collins' death. It certainly was a most fantastic thing to suggest any foul-play on Stuart's part, and I do trust your intuition in the matter. Furthermore, you must heed your mother's advise, Maisie. You mustn't allow your disappointment over Mr. Hill to destroy any chance for other amiable prospects to make themselves known. What about this constable--Mr. Murphy, is it? He seems to provide a rather stark contrast to Stuart Hill in both honesty and transparency. It is my advice that you abandon any more fruitless thinking of Mr. Hill straightaway!
As for my own news--I have little. I have entreated Vaughn for some time now to escort me to one of his lectures at La Sorbonne, and yesterday he finally obliged. We entered the grand amphitheatre in the latter part of the afternoon--Maisie, it was exquisite! I turned to Vaughn to remark on its loveliness, unable to keep myself focused in one direction as there was so much beauty and artistry around me, "This is magnificent, Vaughn ... " But he did not respond. He was completely engrossed in shuffling about through his notes for his discourse. Students began to stream into the great hall and take their seats. I touched the sleeve of his shirt, "I know you shan't need it, but I wish you the best of luck ... " Maisie, it was as if I were invisible. Vaughn adjusted his spectacles and looked up, seeing his professor. He hurried in his direction, leaving me standing there quite alone. "Professeur Barrère--" His voice echoed, then trailed off as he left my side. I must say, I felt most bewildered at the sight of the amphitheatre filling with not only what looked to be students of Vaughn's age, but also many older gentlemen. I took a seat at the end of one of the long, wooden benches. Two young men took their seats beside me, and immediately began to comment on the forthcoming lecture.
"What do you make of Barrère choosing Rousseau for the conference?"
I was most interested to hear the other man's answer. Not merely because this conversation was the only English being spoken within earshot,and my command of French is not yet such as enables me to speak or understand much at all when it comes to medicine, but because it suddenly seemed so pivotal a moment--after all, what do Vaughn's colleagues make of this man I have paired myself with? I had never thought much beyond my own measure of him, but here was an opportunity to learn something of the way he is regarded in the wider world.
"It seemed clear at the start of the year it would be Rousseau, do you not agree?"
"I do. 'Tis a pity the man has such an air about him--I should like to have benefited from such brilliance."
Brilliance? The echoing chatter in the amphitheatre began to lessen, until a silence fell upon the crowd as Vaughn approached the podium. He addressed the students and many visitors of La Sorbonne with much poise and confidence. I daresay, however, that much of his oration was quite foreign to my knowledge. I was only able to comprehend the emphasis being placed on Vaughn's cholera research, and that he seemed to possess many resolute opinions on the subject. The audience was rapt. I felt such a range of emotion as I sat listening to him. The first, and most pronounced, were respect and pride. However, it did not take long for other feelings to fight their way in. As I sat watching him, I could not help but remember the words of your last letter, Maisie. It is true, I have not yet mustered the nerve to require a full account of the events that took place the night I was taken. Perhaps that is the source of my unrest. I hadn't long to dwell on it, however. After only half an hour, Vaughn dismissed himself to resounding applause. I clapped along with the general commendation and smiled widely at him as he made his way down the aisle to find a seat beside me. The two students to my left reached across me to congratulate Vaughn. Vaughn slid his arm around my shoulder, saying, "May I introduce Mademoiselle Adeline Westley?" The two young men, one of them appearing decidedly uncomfortable upon learning that I was intimately acquainted with the man whose "air" he had criticized, nodded politely and turned their attention to the podium, where a new speaker had taken Vaughn's place. I folded my hands in my lap, glancing in Vaughn's direction to find him most perplexed by the lecture in progress. He leaned in close to me and whispered, "Surely this man cannot refute the evidence that it is water-bourne!" I managed a simple smile, wishing I could offer a more relevant response. I have always known Vaughn to be a clever man, Maisie, but not until that moment had I realized what a superior intellect he possesses.
I haven't much more to relay to you, Maisie; perhaps a few weeks time will provide more apropos occasions to pen down. Do write soon, dear.
Yours,
Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
Letter 40 - Education
Miss Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
7 May 1903
Dearest Addie,
I hope you have asked some of your "ever-mounting" questions of your hero. What little interest can be roused in me has been excited by the idea that I may soon know how you came to be rescued, and why Mr. Rousseau did not convey you to your uncle himself. I am sure you were quite overwhelmed at finding yourself alone with such a formidable man, and one you have discovered yourself to be so indebted to, yet I do wish you would find the courage to question him. Perhaps it would put my mind at ease were I to know more intimately the details of what he has sacrificed for you, for I must ask, Addie--are you truly happy with Mr. Rousseau? His actions were admirable in looking for you, fighting for you--I cannot deny the romance of it. Perhaps love is not the thing of spontaneous passion and invulnerable feeling I had used to think it was ... perhaps we must learn to love. The gradual and steady affection as must result from careful teaching could not fail us as thoroughly as its more wild and impetuous cousin has already done. If you can grow to love Mr. Rousseau, I cannot advise against it. Yet it is tiresome to be so practical, Addie, and I worry that you may allow him more influence over your delicate affections than he deserves. I do not know. I feel as if I have very little of conviction left in me, and I must strive to find new beliefs that may fill the void, and serve me better than their predecessors. I am sure I should be grateful for such wisdom as I have gained, but I feel nothing like what I should. If this is what it is to be wise, I could almost wish that I had remained foolish. I have spent much time walking and thinking--or riding and thinking--these last weeks. Mum often attempts to persuade me to spend more time in company, as she is quite staunch in the belief that it will soothe my hurts more efficiently than solitude. Of course, she also thinks I am a right little fool to have broken my engagement in the first place. She has never lamented the loss of "such a fine match," for which I am grateful (it is all I hear from anybody else!), but she is convinced that I have only thrown him over out of boredom and that I am now enjoying the drama of my situation too well to give it up so soon. Mum has chided me repeatedly that if I will not have Stuart, I should at least do him the courtesy of not pretending to pine away when I could just as easily call him back. She is determined I shall have a full social schedule this summer, and certain that a new and exciting courtship will prove the cure for my despondency. I have not the courage to tell her that I do not wish for comfort or companionship unless it is Stuart--my perfect Stuart returned to me as he was at Ambleside, when I loved him without doubt or reservation. How really very sad that I should hold so to the ideal picture of a man--even after I have been thoroughly undeceived, and know how false a picture it must always have been. Dad seems to understand my wish for quiet, and I sometimes wonder if he is not suffering a bit himself. Dad and Stuart got on famously, and I think he had looked forward to having him as son-in-law. I have only seen Peter on two occasions since the dissolution of my engagement, and was extremely grateful that he neither exulted in nor regretted the separation. I had dreaded telling him of it, but Dad was kind enough to intervene when Peter inquired rather resentfully after Stuart's health. I might have imagined the minute start of surprise he exhibited when first he learnt of it, and thereafter he avoided the subject admirably.
I haven't much else to tell, but that P.C. Murphy has been coming round of late, and I fear he means to court me. Mum is quite charmed by him, and insisted on having him to tea the week following his first visit to the mews. I will allow that he is a decent sort of fellow, and always seems to have my comfort in mind, but I cannot think of any man with much interest of late. I do admire his character, however. We were left alone for a few minutes in the parlour before tea, and he hastened to communicate privately with me before we could be interrupted. "I must confess to you, Miss Bristow, that I did not have any engagement which would have prevented me from staying to tea last week. I did not like to speak falsely, but it seemed to me that you asked for my company because your excellent manners required it, and not because you wished it. I admire your kindness, but I did not wish to impose on you at such a delicate time. I hope I was right, and that you will forgive my bending of the truth to that end." This was unlooked for, Addie. And I must admit, to the recent particular distress and confusion of my mind, it was a welcome relief to encounter such a willing candour. I expressed something of this to Mr. Murphy, and he seemed rather pleased to have met with my approval. It was a pleasant afternoon, but my lighter spirits did not outlast his stay, and the evening seemed rather worse than usual by comparison.
And now, Addie, I must scold you. I can assure you that Stuart had nothing to do with the deaths of the two Mr. Collins, and I am rather shocked that you would imply any such thing! He may be less virtuous than once I believed him to be, but I cannot comprehend his being a killer. The real Mr. Collins died in an automobile collision--Peter was aware of it as well--so that cannot possibly be laid at Stuart's feet. As for the false Mr. Collins--a man who deals with the sort of fellows who frequent Wapping Wall can hardly expect not to be murdered. He was an odious man, and no doubt had some equally abhorrent business to conduct. And while Peter may be aware of some ill-judged behaviour on Stuart's part, I cannot think he would befriend a man unscrupulous enough to have been involved in such violent activities, much less facilitate a connection between that man and his own sister, no matter how impermanent he may have thought the attachment likely to be. As much as it might satisfy some part of me to vilify Stuart, I cannot really believe him capable of cold-blooded murder. But as for the main of your advice--you are right, of course. I cannot trust Stuart on faith alone. He is not God, but a man, and so he must earn my trust--or do without it. On this I am resolved, and I know it must be right. I only wish I could feel some return of happiness, but I feel instead as if I have nailed shut my own coffin, and must now cope with the darkness. Yet why should Stuart be light and life and happiness to me? It is not fair, Addie. Write to me soon, dearest.
Sincerely,
Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
7 May 1903
Dearest Addie,
I hope you have asked some of your "ever-mounting" questions of your hero. What little interest can be roused in me has been excited by the idea that I may soon know how you came to be rescued, and why Mr. Rousseau did not convey you to your uncle himself. I am sure you were quite overwhelmed at finding yourself alone with such a formidable man, and one you have discovered yourself to be so indebted to, yet I do wish you would find the courage to question him. Perhaps it would put my mind at ease were I to know more intimately the details of what he has sacrificed for you, for I must ask, Addie--are you truly happy with Mr. Rousseau? His actions were admirable in looking for you, fighting for you--I cannot deny the romance of it. Perhaps love is not the thing of spontaneous passion and invulnerable feeling I had used to think it was ... perhaps we must learn to love. The gradual and steady affection as must result from careful teaching could not fail us as thoroughly as its more wild and impetuous cousin has already done. If you can grow to love Mr. Rousseau, I cannot advise against it. Yet it is tiresome to be so practical, Addie, and I worry that you may allow him more influence over your delicate affections than he deserves. I do not know. I feel as if I have very little of conviction left in me, and I must strive to find new beliefs that may fill the void, and serve me better than their predecessors. I am sure I should be grateful for such wisdom as I have gained, but I feel nothing like what I should. If this is what it is to be wise, I could almost wish that I had remained foolish. I have spent much time walking and thinking--or riding and thinking--these last weeks. Mum often attempts to persuade me to spend more time in company, as she is quite staunch in the belief that it will soothe my hurts more efficiently than solitude. Of course, she also thinks I am a right little fool to have broken my engagement in the first place. She has never lamented the loss of "such a fine match," for which I am grateful (it is all I hear from anybody else!), but she is convinced that I have only thrown him over out of boredom and that I am now enjoying the drama of my situation too well to give it up so soon. Mum has chided me repeatedly that if I will not have Stuart, I should at least do him the courtesy of not pretending to pine away when I could just as easily call him back. She is determined I shall have a full social schedule this summer, and certain that a new and exciting courtship will prove the cure for my despondency. I have not the courage to tell her that I do not wish for comfort or companionship unless it is Stuart--my perfect Stuart returned to me as he was at Ambleside, when I loved him without doubt or reservation. How really very sad that I should hold so to the ideal picture of a man--even after I have been thoroughly undeceived, and know how false a picture it must always have been. Dad seems to understand my wish for quiet, and I sometimes wonder if he is not suffering a bit himself. Dad and Stuart got on famously, and I think he had looked forward to having him as son-in-law. I have only seen Peter on two occasions since the dissolution of my engagement, and was extremely grateful that he neither exulted in nor regretted the separation. I had dreaded telling him of it, but Dad was kind enough to intervene when Peter inquired rather resentfully after Stuart's health. I might have imagined the minute start of surprise he exhibited when first he learnt of it, and thereafter he avoided the subject admirably.
I haven't much else to tell, but that P.C. Murphy has been coming round of late, and I fear he means to court me. Mum is quite charmed by him, and insisted on having him to tea the week following his first visit to the mews. I will allow that he is a decent sort of fellow, and always seems to have my comfort in mind, but I cannot think of any man with much interest of late. I do admire his character, however. We were left alone for a few minutes in the parlour before tea, and he hastened to communicate privately with me before we could be interrupted. "I must confess to you, Miss Bristow, that I did not have any engagement which would have prevented me from staying to tea last week. I did not like to speak falsely, but it seemed to me that you asked for my company because your excellent manners required it, and not because you wished it. I admire your kindness, but I did not wish to impose on you at such a delicate time. I hope I was right, and that you will forgive my bending of the truth to that end." This was unlooked for, Addie. And I must admit, to the recent particular distress and confusion of my mind, it was a welcome relief to encounter such a willing candour. I expressed something of this to Mr. Murphy, and he seemed rather pleased to have met with my approval. It was a pleasant afternoon, but my lighter spirits did not outlast his stay, and the evening seemed rather worse than usual by comparison.
And now, Addie, I must scold you. I can assure you that Stuart had nothing to do with the deaths of the two Mr. Collins, and I am rather shocked that you would imply any such thing! He may be less virtuous than once I believed him to be, but I cannot comprehend his being a killer. The real Mr. Collins died in an automobile collision--Peter was aware of it as well--so that cannot possibly be laid at Stuart's feet. As for the false Mr. Collins--a man who deals with the sort of fellows who frequent Wapping Wall can hardly expect not to be murdered. He was an odious man, and no doubt had some equally abhorrent business to conduct. And while Peter may be aware of some ill-judged behaviour on Stuart's part, I cannot think he would befriend a man unscrupulous enough to have been involved in such violent activities, much less facilitate a connection between that man and his own sister, no matter how impermanent he may have thought the attachment likely to be. As much as it might satisfy some part of me to vilify Stuart, I cannot really believe him capable of cold-blooded murder. But as for the main of your advice--you are right, of course. I cannot trust Stuart on faith alone. He is not God, but a man, and so he must earn my trust--or do without it. On this I am resolved, and I know it must be right. I only wish I could feel some return of happiness, but I feel instead as if I have nailed shut my own coffin, and must now cope with the darkness. Yet why should Stuart be light and life and happiness to me? It is not fair, Addie. Write to me soon, dearest.
Sincerely,
Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London
Letter 39 - Addendum
Miss Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London
29 April 1903
Dear Maisie,
My heart leapt with compassion for you upon reading your last letter. In addendum to my recent correspondence to you, I should like to relay some thoughts I have regarding Mr. Hill, as I had not yet received your latest news before sending off my own.
I cannot bring myself to spare your emotions, nor to insult your intellect with flowery niceties. Do not trust him, Maisie. I may not be as keen as you are at deciphering the truth of things, but I should think I know the face of a liar. What noble reason can Stuart possibly have in going to such great lengths to shroud the truth concerning Collins' death? I daresay you are too lenient with Mr. Hill. Has it not occurred to you that he may have a more grandiose purpose in keeping things from you? Two dead men can now be counted among Stuart Hill's acquaintance; the Mr. Collins you met in Portobello Market, and the true Mr. Collins whom you discovered to be previously deceased with the help of constable Murphy. What chance is this, Maisie? And what of the night you overheard Stuart and Peter? Your brother has objected venomously to your engagement. Peter left the mews over this, Maisie! Perhaps he knows a side of Stuart Hill that you do not. I can only piece together that Peter has always known Stuart's true character--but it was all in good jest whilst you were merely courting. You must listen to reason! Do not waste another thought upon Mr. Hill, nor in trying to discover new ways to justify his suspicious behaviour. I have no doubt that Mr. Hill feels greatly inclined to secure your trust once more, but do not be fooled--it comes at a price. He wishes for your blind faith in support of these obscure endeavors of his! I will be the first to grant my full blessing upon a decision that reunites you with Stuart, if you can present to me but one semblance of a respectable defense on his behalf.
There is no grand love story to be told here, Maisie. There are simple choices we make each day, some of which draw us closer to security and contentment, others which pull us towards the mire of heartache and dilemma. I do wish I were there to talk with you and to help you make sense of it all. Do write again soon.
Yours,
Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
14 Bathurst Mews
London
29 April 1903
Dear Maisie,
My heart leapt with compassion for you upon reading your last letter. In addendum to my recent correspondence to you, I should like to relay some thoughts I have regarding Mr. Hill, as I had not yet received your latest news before sending off my own.
I cannot bring myself to spare your emotions, nor to insult your intellect with flowery niceties. Do not trust him, Maisie. I may not be as keen as you are at deciphering the truth of things, but I should think I know the face of a liar. What noble reason can Stuart possibly have in going to such great lengths to shroud the truth concerning Collins' death? I daresay you are too lenient with Mr. Hill. Has it not occurred to you that he may have a more grandiose purpose in keeping things from you? Two dead men can now be counted among Stuart Hill's acquaintance; the Mr. Collins you met in Portobello Market, and the true Mr. Collins whom you discovered to be previously deceased with the help of constable Murphy. What chance is this, Maisie? And what of the night you overheard Stuart and Peter? Your brother has objected venomously to your engagement. Peter left the mews over this, Maisie! Perhaps he knows a side of Stuart Hill that you do not. I can only piece together that Peter has always known Stuart's true character--but it was all in good jest whilst you were merely courting. You must listen to reason! Do not waste another thought upon Mr. Hill, nor in trying to discover new ways to justify his suspicious behaviour. I have no doubt that Mr. Hill feels greatly inclined to secure your trust once more, but do not be fooled--it comes at a price. He wishes for your blind faith in support of these obscure endeavors of his! I will be the first to grant my full blessing upon a decision that reunites you with Stuart, if you can present to me but one semblance of a respectable defense on his behalf.
There is no grand love story to be told here, Maisie. There are simple choices we make each day, some of which draw us closer to security and contentment, others which pull us towards the mire of heartache and dilemma. I do wish I were there to talk with you and to help you make sense of it all. Do write again soon.
Yours,
Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
Narrative 38 - Datura
(The narrative which forms the greater part of "Datura," as it falls within the chronology of Letters so far, is a flashback. The action of this narrative takes place in January 1903, beginning one day after events mentioned in Letter 26 - Theories and Things Overheard and finishing roughly a week prior to Letter 27 - Dissociation. The reader may therefore wish to review Letter 26 before continuing with "Datura," and possibly review Letter 27 directly after finishing, to better orient him or herself within the time frame that the action occurs.)
Mr. William Morgan
25 Victoria Street
London
9 January 1903
Dear Sir,
I am required outside of London on a matter of personal importance. I depart immediately, and may be absent for the better part of a week. I shall report my return as soon I am again in the city, and hope you will not have need of me in the interim.
With respect,
PB
Really, it was almost insulting how overqualified he was for the task. Not that this was about ego, or anything of the sort. But, if it had not been … Maisie's particular chum who was in danger, Peter Bristow would simply have wired a tip to the Préfecture de Police and been done with it. As it was, he had made immediate arrangements for a brief visit to Paris. The journey by train had gone much too slowly, but he had occupied himself by outlining his strategy in detail. Now, watching the lights of Calais draw closer from the deck of the Pride of Canterbury, he couldn't help himself thinking of Maisie, and what she would suffer if Hill went the way of Davies, of Blackstone ... of Collins. There were many more, of course, but he tried not to think about the ones whose names he did know, let alone the countless, faceless others. This was hardly the time to let himself become distracted, but the words he had exchanged with Hill yesterday afternoon had drained him of the usual drive that enabled him to do his work. He had been harsh with Maisie, but she would thank him for it if she knew his motives. He could not afford to become more attached to any of them--he had to distance himself as much as possible. It was clear to him that this was the most noble course, though Hill refused to see it. Stuart Hill, in his supreme selfishness, wanted it all, and Peter could not like him for it. Upon disembarking at Calais, Peter resolved to think no more of matters at home, and immediately began making the necessary inquiries regarding his quarry.
The sun was setting over the tops of the buildings lining the cobbled street as Peter emerged from Pigalle Station and headed east along Boulevard de Rochechouart at a brisk pace. It had not been particularly troublesome to trace Shapcott to this less-than-reputable neighbourhood. The man was a foreigner here, striking in both accent and aspect--despite the fact that he had apparently altered his usual appearance by the removal of his customary beard--and seemed to have little wish to go unremarked through the streets of Paris. Of course, Shapcott would not have expected that anyone had reason to pay attention to his movements. As it was, Peter thought wryly that the man might as well have left a trail of bread crumbs. He had tracked Shapcott from Calais with relative ease, learnt this morning that the man had made inquiries as to rooms for rent in the neighbourhood of La Chapelle, and had obtained a most disturbing affirmation of Miss Westley's abduction only this afternoon, when a tiny French woman peddling flowers on Place Louis Lépine had remarked upon the unusual circumstance of an Englishwoman stealing a bouquet of irises. As the flower seller's tale had also included the description of the young woman's accomplice, an older Englishman, and as Peter had found the pillaged flowers abandoned in a narrow alley not far from the market, there was little doubt as to the identities of the presumed thieves. Nevertheless, he had been one step behind Shapcott from the beginning, and had not closed that distance as of yet. It was essential, of course, that he head the man off. The only item of comparable importance was his personal conviction that he must not be seen. Adeline must not suspect. It would not do for him to further encourage an interest he had no intention of returning, particularly in light of the fact that he had purposely allowed Maisie to misinterpret many of his own actions as a manifestation of returned interest. That damage had been unavoidable, under the circumstances, but he would not wrong Miss Westley further if he could help it.
The area was rife with maisons d’abattage, but it was not difficult to locate the particular hotel he sought. As he executed a brief but thorough search of each side street, he could not but notice that one portion of Rue de la Charbonniere was conspicuously empty, while crowds of men pressed in on the others. He wondered at the proprietor's choice to let a room here--surely Shapcott would have had to pay at least as much as could have been earned by the unfortunate girl who would have serviced a good one hundred men that night. But Shapcott had ever been an enigma to Peter. If he wished to spend his curious wealth on a squalid room in La Chapelle, when he could likely have procured more comfortable lodgings elsewhere for the same sum, what was it to Peter? And yet he could not think it less than remarkable as he approached the battered door. Not having an exact idea of how much time may have passed since Miss Westley had been imprisoned in the room, Peter was nevertheless painfully aware that the interval may have afforded Shapcott more time alone with her than was conscionable. Removing his hat and pressing his ear to the cracked red paint covering the surface of the door, he strained to hear past the surrounding murmur of waiting clients. He could discern movement within--the dull thump and shuffle of boots on a wooden floor, the clank of glass bottles, and then the great thud and creak that seemed to announce a body settling onto a piece of wooden furniture. Had the man failed at his attempt? Was Shapcott alone, and disappointed? But, no--another sound seemed to rise out of the chaotic noise of the street to contradict any such happy theory--a muffled, piteous cry that sent an involuntary chill through Peter's body. He was too late, then. Not too late to remove Miss Westley from Shapcott's power, not too late to return her to her uncle ... but too late to prevent the damage that had surely already been inflicted upon her. He could not imagine Shapcott securing his prize only to shut her away in favor of a drink, or a kip. Not before making her his own. He had not been swift enough. The realisation of what his inadequacy had cost Adeline seemed to settle into his chest and shoulders like a great weight, and a full minute had passed away before he was able to shake himself out of the unpleasant reverie inspired by the discovery. When he had recovered himself he was mildly surprised to realise he was sagging against the door for support, and he strove to regain his former composure. It would not do to fall apart now. He needed to focus, assess the situation. All had gone quiet within the room. Replacing his hat and tipping it as far down over his eyes as it would go, Peter slipped silently inside and closed the door behind him.
Peter could not discern much in the cramped space, lit only by a pair of candles on a garishly painted wooden table. He immediately noted Miss Westley's absence, however, and the presence of a second door which must open to an inner room, from which direction he could now perceive the continued cries, softer than before although he had drawn closer to their source. The object of his hunt was sprawled across the only other piece of furniture in the room, a painted wooden bench in rather worse shape than the table. Clarence Shapcott lay before him--insensible, vulnerable. It would seem the man had celebrated his conquest with more whiskey than was compatible with consciousness. A heady wave of hatred flooded Peter's senses, and he felt as if every nerve in his body was vibrating as he stood over Shapcott, breathing hard. He wanted to annihilate the man. He wanted to pummel that newly shaven face until it was unrecognizable, to shatter every joint and snap every bone in the man's body. Why could not he have faced an alert Shapcott, who would surely have offered the resistance necessary to justify these actions? Peter endeavored to smooth the angry frown that distorted his features as he struggled for self-control, closing his eyes and drawing a slow, deep breath. He must not indulge his loathing at the expense of the mission. None of the violence he felt so eager to engage in would serve to lessen Miss Westley's suffering. He told himself this, and he almost believed it. At length he removed a dirty coil of rope from his coat pocket and tied Shapcott securely to the bench. This work done, he glanced at the inner door. He realized that the cries had ceased, and all was stillness. She had fallen asleep, then, and he would go--he would go and procure a hero for her. He turned his back on the door resolutely, but did not move to leave. Something held him in the room, and he realised after a moment that it was an effect of his training, which had made it habit to apply thoroughness to every situation and circumstance. The motivation for his mission--the girl he had assigned himself to protect--was very likely injured, possibly in need of medical care to preserve her life. It would be foolishness to leave this up to chance, however imperative it was that he not be seen or connected to this crime in any way. It would be imprudent to take his leave without first satisfying himself that she breathed and was not too grievously injured. The idea was at once both repulsive and attractive. He did not wish to behold the results of Shapcott's abominable predations. But, again, he was almost wild with desire to ensure that his actions had not been in vain. The internal struggle was brief, however, and once he had granted himself permission to proceed, he advanced towards the inner door without delay, and let himself inside. He was immediately gripped with a certain horror at the complete silence which reigned, and the utter stillness of the figure curled up on the floor at his feet, her disarrayed curls covering her face. He dropped to the floor at her side and found intense relief upon discovering the strong pulse of blood at her wrist. Even amidst his terror, however, he had not been insensible to the effect of her physical nearness. How long had it been since he had shared a common space with Adeline Westley? He had not forgotten her charms, of course, but his memory had not done her justice. He gently brushed the dark curls from her cheek and drew breath sharply at sight of the deep purple bruise that marred her jawline. Her breathing was slow and even, however, and he could not discern any greater injury upon rudimentary inspection. Gathering her slight form into his arms, he placed her gently on the disturbed bedclothes of the singular piece of furniture in the room, trying not to dwell upon the scene that must have taken place there. He realized that his hands were clenched into fists, and willed them to relax. Now he could go without worry or reservation--she could easily rest here for the brief period of time it would require for him to find a suitable rescuer. But he did not wish to leave her. Surely, it had been at least a year since last he had seen her. Yet here she was, lovely despite her recent trauma--as soft and beautiful and delicate as a night-blooming flower. He could not recall how many nights he had paced the Botanic Gardens at Oxford, and found in the exotic blooms some semblance of the pleasure he knew in her presence. He had never beheld a blossom to equal her, but had come to value the exotic fragrance as a connection to her, however frail and fleeting. The sounds of fervored movement in an adjacent room brought him back to himself, and he was immediately ashamed of the time he had wasted in selfish indulgence. He turned and exited the rooms, pausing only to note that Shapcott remained senseless before emerging onto the street.
It remained only to select the man who would convey Miss Westley to her uncle, and Peter settled upon a small fellow loitering at the opening of the street who looked to be waiting for a friend, or perhaps regretting a lack of funds which prevented him from partaking in the pleasures of the evening. Peter had been careful to dress so plainly as not to occasion notice in Paris, the most remarkable item of his apparel being his hat, and now affected a rather good approximation of an American speaking French as he greeted the little man. He offered a significant sum to the man, pointing out the door to Shapcott's room and explaining that the man need only transport the girl he would find inside to an estate in Le Marais where he would then receive several times over what he was now being given. Upon receiving the necessary details from his benefactor, the Frenchman, who it transpired was called Molyneux, was only too eager to take the roll of notes and hurry in the direction Peter indicated. Peter put great trust in greed as a motivation--he had too often seen its influence to doubt its power--but nevertheless followed Molyneux's movements at some distance to satisfy himself that the man's lust did not exceed his avarice. He had no sooner placed himself in a position so as to witness Miss Westley's delivery at her uncle's door, than she had disappeared inside, and it was time for him to be gone. He had not gained as much satisfaction from the operation as might be hoped, but he had done what he could--or must persuade himself that it was so. The route that had seemed so endless as he moved toward Paris now passed with unaccountable speed as he traversed it in the opposite direction, and as his journey to London neared its close he began to consider what repercussions he might face in the mews over his sudden and unexplained absence. It was not a pleasant line of thought, and was followed shortly by the conviction that it was past time for him to make his residence in Victoria Street a permanent one.
Mr. William Morgan
25 Victoria Street
London
9 January 1903
Dear Sir,
I am required outside of London on a matter of personal importance. I depart immediately, and may be absent for the better part of a week. I shall report my return as soon I am again in the city, and hope you will not have need of me in the interim.
With respect,
PB
* * *
Really, it was almost insulting how overqualified he was for the task. Not that this was about ego, or anything of the sort. But, if it had not been … Maisie's particular chum who was in danger, Peter Bristow would simply have wired a tip to the Préfecture de Police and been done with it. As it was, he had made immediate arrangements for a brief visit to Paris. The journey by train had gone much too slowly, but he had occupied himself by outlining his strategy in detail. Now, watching the lights of Calais draw closer from the deck of the Pride of Canterbury, he couldn't help himself thinking of Maisie, and what she would suffer if Hill went the way of Davies, of Blackstone ... of Collins. There were many more, of course, but he tried not to think about the ones whose names he did know, let alone the countless, faceless others. This was hardly the time to let himself become distracted, but the words he had exchanged with Hill yesterday afternoon had drained him of the usual drive that enabled him to do his work. He had been harsh with Maisie, but she would thank him for it if she knew his motives. He could not afford to become more attached to any of them--he had to distance himself as much as possible. It was clear to him that this was the most noble course, though Hill refused to see it. Stuart Hill, in his supreme selfishness, wanted it all, and Peter could not like him for it. Upon disembarking at Calais, Peter resolved to think no more of matters at home, and immediately began making the necessary inquiries regarding his quarry.
* * *
The sun was setting over the tops of the buildings lining the cobbled street as Peter emerged from Pigalle Station and headed east along Boulevard de Rochechouart at a brisk pace. It had not been particularly troublesome to trace Shapcott to this less-than-reputable neighbourhood. The man was a foreigner here, striking in both accent and aspect--despite the fact that he had apparently altered his usual appearance by the removal of his customary beard--and seemed to have little wish to go unremarked through the streets of Paris. Of course, Shapcott would not have expected that anyone had reason to pay attention to his movements. As it was, Peter thought wryly that the man might as well have left a trail of bread crumbs. He had tracked Shapcott from Calais with relative ease, learnt this morning that the man had made inquiries as to rooms for rent in the neighbourhood of La Chapelle, and had obtained a most disturbing affirmation of Miss Westley's abduction only this afternoon, when a tiny French woman peddling flowers on Place Louis Lépine had remarked upon the unusual circumstance of an Englishwoman stealing a bouquet of irises. As the flower seller's tale had also included the description of the young woman's accomplice, an older Englishman, and as Peter had found the pillaged flowers abandoned in a narrow alley not far from the market, there was little doubt as to the identities of the presumed thieves. Nevertheless, he had been one step behind Shapcott from the beginning, and had not closed that distance as of yet. It was essential, of course, that he head the man off. The only item of comparable importance was his personal conviction that he must not be seen. Adeline must not suspect. It would not do for him to further encourage an interest he had no intention of returning, particularly in light of the fact that he had purposely allowed Maisie to misinterpret many of his own actions as a manifestation of returned interest. That damage had been unavoidable, under the circumstances, but he would not wrong Miss Westley further if he could help it.
The area was rife with maisons d’abattage, but it was not difficult to locate the particular hotel he sought. As he executed a brief but thorough search of each side street, he could not but notice that one portion of Rue de la Charbonniere was conspicuously empty, while crowds of men pressed in on the others. He wondered at the proprietor's choice to let a room here--surely Shapcott would have had to pay at least as much as could have been earned by the unfortunate girl who would have serviced a good one hundred men that night. But Shapcott had ever been an enigma to Peter. If he wished to spend his curious wealth on a squalid room in La Chapelle, when he could likely have procured more comfortable lodgings elsewhere for the same sum, what was it to Peter? And yet he could not think it less than remarkable as he approached the battered door. Not having an exact idea of how much time may have passed since Miss Westley had been imprisoned in the room, Peter was nevertheless painfully aware that the interval may have afforded Shapcott more time alone with her than was conscionable. Removing his hat and pressing his ear to the cracked red paint covering the surface of the door, he strained to hear past the surrounding murmur of waiting clients. He could discern movement within--the dull thump and shuffle of boots on a wooden floor, the clank of glass bottles, and then the great thud and creak that seemed to announce a body settling onto a piece of wooden furniture. Had the man failed at his attempt? Was Shapcott alone, and disappointed? But, no--another sound seemed to rise out of the chaotic noise of the street to contradict any such happy theory--a muffled, piteous cry that sent an involuntary chill through Peter's body. He was too late, then. Not too late to remove Miss Westley from Shapcott's power, not too late to return her to her uncle ... but too late to prevent the damage that had surely already been inflicted upon her. He could not imagine Shapcott securing his prize only to shut her away in favor of a drink, or a kip. Not before making her his own. He had not been swift enough. The realisation of what his inadequacy had cost Adeline seemed to settle into his chest and shoulders like a great weight, and a full minute had passed away before he was able to shake himself out of the unpleasant reverie inspired by the discovery. When he had recovered himself he was mildly surprised to realise he was sagging against the door for support, and he strove to regain his former composure. It would not do to fall apart now. He needed to focus, assess the situation. All had gone quiet within the room. Replacing his hat and tipping it as far down over his eyes as it would go, Peter slipped silently inside and closed the door behind him.
Peter could not discern much in the cramped space, lit only by a pair of candles on a garishly painted wooden table. He immediately noted Miss Westley's absence, however, and the presence of a second door which must open to an inner room, from which direction he could now perceive the continued cries, softer than before although he had drawn closer to their source. The object of his hunt was sprawled across the only other piece of furniture in the room, a painted wooden bench in rather worse shape than the table. Clarence Shapcott lay before him--insensible, vulnerable. It would seem the man had celebrated his conquest with more whiskey than was compatible with consciousness. A heady wave of hatred flooded Peter's senses, and he felt as if every nerve in his body was vibrating as he stood over Shapcott, breathing hard. He wanted to annihilate the man. He wanted to pummel that newly shaven face until it was unrecognizable, to shatter every joint and snap every bone in the man's body. Why could not he have faced an alert Shapcott, who would surely have offered the resistance necessary to justify these actions? Peter endeavored to smooth the angry frown that distorted his features as he struggled for self-control, closing his eyes and drawing a slow, deep breath. He must not indulge his loathing at the expense of the mission. None of the violence he felt so eager to engage in would serve to lessen Miss Westley's suffering. He told himself this, and he almost believed it. At length he removed a dirty coil of rope from his coat pocket and tied Shapcott securely to the bench. This work done, he glanced at the inner door. He realized that the cries had ceased, and all was stillness. She had fallen asleep, then, and he would go--he would go and procure a hero for her. He turned his back on the door resolutely, but did not move to leave. Something held him in the room, and he realised after a moment that it was an effect of his training, which had made it habit to apply thoroughness to every situation and circumstance. The motivation for his mission--the girl he had assigned himself to protect--was very likely injured, possibly in need of medical care to preserve her life. It would be foolishness to leave this up to chance, however imperative it was that he not be seen or connected to this crime in any way. It would be imprudent to take his leave without first satisfying himself that she breathed and was not too grievously injured. The idea was at once both repulsive and attractive. He did not wish to behold the results of Shapcott's abominable predations. But, again, he was almost wild with desire to ensure that his actions had not been in vain. The internal struggle was brief, however, and once he had granted himself permission to proceed, he advanced towards the inner door without delay, and let himself inside. He was immediately gripped with a certain horror at the complete silence which reigned, and the utter stillness of the figure curled up on the floor at his feet, her disarrayed curls covering her face. He dropped to the floor at her side and found intense relief upon discovering the strong pulse of blood at her wrist. Even amidst his terror, however, he had not been insensible to the effect of her physical nearness. How long had it been since he had shared a common space with Adeline Westley? He had not forgotten her charms, of course, but his memory had not done her justice. He gently brushed the dark curls from her cheek and drew breath sharply at sight of the deep purple bruise that marred her jawline. Her breathing was slow and even, however, and he could not discern any greater injury upon rudimentary inspection. Gathering her slight form into his arms, he placed her gently on the disturbed bedclothes of the singular piece of furniture in the room, trying not to dwell upon the scene that must have taken place there. He realized that his hands were clenched into fists, and willed them to relax. Now he could go without worry or reservation--she could easily rest here for the brief period of time it would require for him to find a suitable rescuer. But he did not wish to leave her. Surely, it had been at least a year since last he had seen her. Yet here she was, lovely despite her recent trauma--as soft and beautiful and delicate as a night-blooming flower. He could not recall how many nights he had paced the Botanic Gardens at Oxford, and found in the exotic blooms some semblance of the pleasure he knew in her presence. He had never beheld a blossom to equal her, but had come to value the exotic fragrance as a connection to her, however frail and fleeting. The sounds of fervored movement in an adjacent room brought him back to himself, and he was immediately ashamed of the time he had wasted in selfish indulgence. He turned and exited the rooms, pausing only to note that Shapcott remained senseless before emerging onto the street.
It remained only to select the man who would convey Miss Westley to her uncle, and Peter settled upon a small fellow loitering at the opening of the street who looked to be waiting for a friend, or perhaps regretting a lack of funds which prevented him from partaking in the pleasures of the evening. Peter had been careful to dress so plainly as not to occasion notice in Paris, the most remarkable item of his apparel being his hat, and now affected a rather good approximation of an American speaking French as he greeted the little man. He offered a significant sum to the man, pointing out the door to Shapcott's room and explaining that the man need only transport the girl he would find inside to an estate in Le Marais where he would then receive several times over what he was now being given. Upon receiving the necessary details from his benefactor, the Frenchman, who it transpired was called Molyneux, was only too eager to take the roll of notes and hurry in the direction Peter indicated. Peter put great trust in greed as a motivation--he had too often seen its influence to doubt its power--but nevertheless followed Molyneux's movements at some distance to satisfy himself that the man's lust did not exceed his avarice. He had no sooner placed himself in a position so as to witness Miss Westley's delivery at her uncle's door, than she had disappeared inside, and it was time for him to be gone. He had not gained as much satisfaction from the operation as might be hoped, but he had done what he could--or must persuade himself that it was so. The route that had seemed so endless as he moved toward Paris now passed with unaccountable speed as he traversed it in the opposite direction, and as his journey to London neared its close he began to consider what repercussions he might face in the mews over his sudden and unexplained absence. It was not a pleasant line of thought, and was followed shortly by the conviction that it was past time for him to make his residence in Victoria Street a permanent one.
Letter 37 - Chez Rousseau
Miss Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London
28 April 1903
Dearest Maisie,
My days have been in such disarray since last I wrote. I have been pacing the estate with nothing to occupy my time now that Vaughn has withdrawn himself as my tutor. I have walked the gardens--and it was lovely to see the beginnings of the blossoms and the spring--but much of my time has been spent within the confines of the château, due to rain. I have read more of the letters in the hat box, but none thus far have divulged any great secret. Oh, what folly on my part to have spent my time with Vaughn so unwisely!
After weeks of lamenting my childish dismissal of Mr. Rousseau, I at last mustered the nerve to ask Madame Fifi to call on him. My questions about the abduction are ever-mounting, and more strangely, mixed with some foreign thoughts of kindness towards Vaughn ever since he revealed that it was he who saved me. Madame Fifi found me later that same afternoon and informed me that Vaughn was, in fact, coming to fetch me that very evening. Maisie, I have never been more nervous. I was shaking as the chambermaid laced my corset, and I startled when Madame Fifi entered the room. "Mademoiselle, Monsieur Rousseau has arrived. He is waiting in the parlour." I tugged at my curls, and stomped my boot to the floor, "Fifi! Can you not see I am completely unhinged? You musn't storm into a room whilst I am dressing--." I feared I may have bruised Fifi's feelings with my scolding, but I needn't have worried. I glanced at Madame Fifi only to see that she had braced herself against the bedpost and was doubled over in laughter. Once composed she replied, "Pardonnez moi, I will be sure to check your suitor for a crown next time--left to my own judgement, I had thought this one more likely to be the court fool!" Unable to interject my fury past Fifi's raucous chortling, I straightened my corset myself and, tearing my skirt from the chambermaid's hands, huffed down the hall, red-faced and--I am ashamed to admit--very much in the spirit of Mr. Rousseau himself. I had scarcely collected myself upon entering the parlour. Vaughn was standing at the window, looking out. Upon the noise of my entrance he turned, stiffened his frame, and advanced towards me. Maisie, never has my mind been so at war with itself. It seems to me there is an indiscernible line that divides my every instinct regarding this man. It is nearly indescribable, Maisie. As I attempted to greet Vaughn I found that the seemingly elementary act of willing my body to move forward was intrinsically contrary to my body's more natural reflex to turn and run from him. But once I was able to strangle the latter (quite ridiculous) impulse into submission, an entirely new feeling took over. It was one of admiration for his good will in looking for me when I went missing, and gratitude that his actions had no doubt spared me a great deal more harm than I had actually suffered. This notion of thanksgiving for Vaughn Rousseau, however, was equally fleeting. Amidst all this chaos within me, I was quite unable to deliver a simple "bonsoir." A strange marriage of sensations crept over my skin as Rousseau gathered my hands into his, along with a most unsettling set of contrasting persuasions--one whispering what a pompous and self-serving creature Vaughn has always proven himself to be, the other beguiling me to trust this man who had no doubt risked his very life to ensure the safety of my own. Rousseau raised my hands to his lips and kissed my fingers. His lips felt thin and cold. The instinct to recoil from this familiar salutation caused my hands to twitch, and though I stayed them, Vaughn raised his piercing gaze to meet mine, saying, "Is it still unnatural that it is not Steichen standing in your parlour?" The idea was so completely foreign to the barrage of emotions with which I was contending that it hadn't once occurred to me that it was, in fact, Eduard who had last come to call. I suppose I am the envy of every young lady in London, Maisie, as a chaperon has never been imposed upon me--but at that moment I wished more than anything that I were standing in the parlour of my father's home, for he would never have allowed an escort such privacy. But alas, Mr. Westley has no interest in whom I marry, other than to ensure the man would not bring embarrassment upon his household. I made a great effort to withdraw my hand slowly, and replied, "No, Vaughn. I haven't thought on Eduard for some time now ... especially since discovering that it was you who came to my aide." Vaughn smiled broadly and led me to the door.
After a short walk into the fifth arrondissement, Vaughn stopped us at rue de la Harpe and picked a key from his pocket. Turning to me, he said, "Par ici," and motioned for me to follow him up a flight of stairs. He was halfway up the stairwell whilst I lingered apprehensively behind. He looked down through the slats in the railing. His voice echoed, "Shall I say it en anglais?" Looking up in his direction, I was quick to reply so as not to upset him, "No, I just lost my footing momentarily ... " Vaughn continued upward until we reached the second floor of the building. I was most unnerved at the setting for our evening. Behind the door, marked 197, was a lavish apartment, quite large for a student. A gilded clock with a fine figurine of a hunting man and his dog sat upon the mantle above a crackling fire. The mantle was mahogany, and adorned with a grand beveled mirror and brass sconces. In every direction I discovered some form of opulence. Every thing I laid my eyes upon was impressive. A long dining table was set with fine linens of bobbin lace and monogrammed napkins. I could hardly gather my thoughts amidst all the displays of affluence. Three elaborately filigreed candelabras stood upon the server, and the china cabinet in the corner displayed some elegant trinket on every shelf. Vaughn's shadow moved across the dimly lit room as he pulled out the chair behind me. A young woman emerged from the kitchen and began to serve us. Vaughn ate as he stared in my direction. I was most uncomfortable, and diverted my eyes to my surroundings to avoid meeting his gaze. I began to question my own reasoning in accepting an invitation to dine alone with my French tutor. I cleared my throat and commented, "This is a beautiful home you have made for yourself, Vaughn. I hadn't realised the proximity of your home to my uncle's estate." He casually replied whilst buttering his bread, "Well, it is very convenient to La Sorbonne." Maisie, the man did not take his eyes from me. I looked down and began to eat, unable to make idle conversation with him. It seemed an eternity while the silence lasted. I remembered Vaughn saying he was from Brittany whilst we walked to Montparnasse, and thought it a suitable topic. "Vaughn, tell me more about your family in Brittany." He looked rather put out, and said only, "My father is a fisherman in Morlaix--foolish man. We haven't seen each other in ages. I pity my mother most for having been sentenced to a life with a man whose only ambition is to troll the English Channel for sardines." Vaughn continued to slice into his sweet potato croquette. As for me, I had rather lost my appetite. Vaughn, no doubt noticing my unrest, set down his silver and placed his napkin on his seat. He moved to stand beside me and said, "Come with me." He lead me to a chaise by the fire. I felt I could not bear much more of this, Maisie. I began to consider my options in excusing myself when he spoke, "You were unconscious when I found you." He swept the curls from my shoulder, his fingers lightly brushing my skin. He had certainly captured my attention with this announcement. I felt my heart race at the thought of being at his mercy--without even my wits about me!--and struggled for clarity of mind as I said, "There is much I do not recall about that night." "Well, the monster holding you hostage was certainly not going to harm you once I had found you." Something in my heart began to soften at the thought of this chivalry. Vaughn continued, "Mr. Westley was certainly thorough in alerting the authorities and in offering a handsome reward for your return, but I simply could not sit and wait for the police to discover your body in some godforsaken place." He rested his hand atop mine, and I could not help but take comfort in his generosity and sacrifice on my behalf. I replied, "You must accept my apology for my recent behaviour--I had never predicted it was you ... I suppose I have neglected you from the very start ... " He smirked, "Well, I am sure it is not difficult to conclude how preposterous your whimsical ideas of Eduard and Peter were." I flinched away from him as he said the name. "What do you know of Peter?" I leapt up from his side and began to back away from him. Vaughn's complexion blanched white, "I--I simply mean that your friend, Peter, is too far removed from your life here in Paris to possibly care for you the way that I do." I stared at him for a moment before asking, "Have I mentioned Peter?" Vaughn was smiling again, and in a calming tone replied, "Yes, Adeline ... of course." He clasped my hands in his. "Do you honestly not recall, Adeline? Shall I call on Doctor Laroche? I am confident I could have him here within the hour." The wild thumping of my heart slowed, and I spent a moment regaining my composure. "No--no, that will not be necessary. I would be grieved at the thought of worrying my uncle any further with the matter." With a gentle hand, Vaughn turned my face to his and said, "This is what is real, Adeline. On me, you can rely." A strange certainty began to creep its way toward my heart. It seemed to me that truer words had never been spoken. The world at that moment might be full to the brim with men of good intention, but Vaughn was the only man who cared enough for me to act. Vaughn's sincere offer of protection seemed to satisfy a need I had not known to be so utterly wanting. At the close of the evening, after Vaughn had escorted me home, I turned to him and said, "Will you find some time for me again?" Vaughn kissed my cheek and whispered in my ear, "How could I not?" I retired to bed that evening with a feeling of security that I had not felt for some time, Maisie--I daresay since before I left London. I think it is high time for me to be sensible and practical. I think of the time we have wasted on both Peter and Stuart ... and to what end?
I am eager to hear your latest news.
Yours,
Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
14 Bathurst Mews
London
28 April 1903
Dearest Maisie,
My days have been in such disarray since last I wrote. I have been pacing the estate with nothing to occupy my time now that Vaughn has withdrawn himself as my tutor. I have walked the gardens--and it was lovely to see the beginnings of the blossoms and the spring--but much of my time has been spent within the confines of the château, due to rain. I have read more of the letters in the hat box, but none thus far have divulged any great secret. Oh, what folly on my part to have spent my time with Vaughn so unwisely!
After weeks of lamenting my childish dismissal of Mr. Rousseau, I at last mustered the nerve to ask Madame Fifi to call on him. My questions about the abduction are ever-mounting, and more strangely, mixed with some foreign thoughts of kindness towards Vaughn ever since he revealed that it was he who saved me. Madame Fifi found me later that same afternoon and informed me that Vaughn was, in fact, coming to fetch me that very evening. Maisie, I have never been more nervous. I was shaking as the chambermaid laced my corset, and I startled when Madame Fifi entered the room. "Mademoiselle, Monsieur Rousseau has arrived. He is waiting in the parlour." I tugged at my curls, and stomped my boot to the floor, "Fifi! Can you not see I am completely unhinged? You musn't storm into a room whilst I am dressing--." I feared I may have bruised Fifi's feelings with my scolding, but I needn't have worried. I glanced at Madame Fifi only to see that she had braced herself against the bedpost and was doubled over in laughter. Once composed she replied, "Pardonnez moi, I will be sure to check your suitor for a crown next time--left to my own judgement, I had thought this one more likely to be the court fool!" Unable to interject my fury past Fifi's raucous chortling, I straightened my corset myself and, tearing my skirt from the chambermaid's hands, huffed down the hall, red-faced and--I am ashamed to admit--very much in the spirit of Mr. Rousseau himself. I had scarcely collected myself upon entering the parlour. Vaughn was standing at the window, looking out. Upon the noise of my entrance he turned, stiffened his frame, and advanced towards me. Maisie, never has my mind been so at war with itself. It seems to me there is an indiscernible line that divides my every instinct regarding this man. It is nearly indescribable, Maisie. As I attempted to greet Vaughn I found that the seemingly elementary act of willing my body to move forward was intrinsically contrary to my body's more natural reflex to turn and run from him. But once I was able to strangle the latter (quite ridiculous) impulse into submission, an entirely new feeling took over. It was one of admiration for his good will in looking for me when I went missing, and gratitude that his actions had no doubt spared me a great deal more harm than I had actually suffered. This notion of thanksgiving for Vaughn Rousseau, however, was equally fleeting. Amidst all this chaos within me, I was quite unable to deliver a simple "bonsoir." A strange marriage of sensations crept over my skin as Rousseau gathered my hands into his, along with a most unsettling set of contrasting persuasions--one whispering what a pompous and self-serving creature Vaughn has always proven himself to be, the other beguiling me to trust this man who had no doubt risked his very life to ensure the safety of my own. Rousseau raised my hands to his lips and kissed my fingers. His lips felt thin and cold. The instinct to recoil from this familiar salutation caused my hands to twitch, and though I stayed them, Vaughn raised his piercing gaze to meet mine, saying, "Is it still unnatural that it is not Steichen standing in your parlour?" The idea was so completely foreign to the barrage of emotions with which I was contending that it hadn't once occurred to me that it was, in fact, Eduard who had last come to call. I suppose I am the envy of every young lady in London, Maisie, as a chaperon has never been imposed upon me--but at that moment I wished more than anything that I were standing in the parlour of my father's home, for he would never have allowed an escort such privacy. But alas, Mr. Westley has no interest in whom I marry, other than to ensure the man would not bring embarrassment upon his household. I made a great effort to withdraw my hand slowly, and replied, "No, Vaughn. I haven't thought on Eduard for some time now ... especially since discovering that it was you who came to my aide." Vaughn smiled broadly and led me to the door.
After a short walk into the fifth arrondissement, Vaughn stopped us at rue de la Harpe and picked a key from his pocket. Turning to me, he said, "Par ici," and motioned for me to follow him up a flight of stairs. He was halfway up the stairwell whilst I lingered apprehensively behind. He looked down through the slats in the railing. His voice echoed, "Shall I say it en anglais?" Looking up in his direction, I was quick to reply so as not to upset him, "No, I just lost my footing momentarily ... " Vaughn continued upward until we reached the second floor of the building. I was most unnerved at the setting for our evening. Behind the door, marked 197, was a lavish apartment, quite large for a student. A gilded clock with a fine figurine of a hunting man and his dog sat upon the mantle above a crackling fire. The mantle was mahogany, and adorned with a grand beveled mirror and brass sconces. In every direction I discovered some form of opulence. Every thing I laid my eyes upon was impressive. A long dining table was set with fine linens of bobbin lace and monogrammed napkins. I could hardly gather my thoughts amidst all the displays of affluence. Three elaborately filigreed candelabras stood upon the server, and the china cabinet in the corner displayed some elegant trinket on every shelf. Vaughn's shadow moved across the dimly lit room as he pulled out the chair behind me. A young woman emerged from the kitchen and began to serve us. Vaughn ate as he stared in my direction. I was most uncomfortable, and diverted my eyes to my surroundings to avoid meeting his gaze. I began to question my own reasoning in accepting an invitation to dine alone with my French tutor. I cleared my throat and commented, "This is a beautiful home you have made for yourself, Vaughn. I hadn't realised the proximity of your home to my uncle's estate." He casually replied whilst buttering his bread, "Well, it is very convenient to La Sorbonne." Maisie, the man did not take his eyes from me. I looked down and began to eat, unable to make idle conversation with him. It seemed an eternity while the silence lasted. I remembered Vaughn saying he was from Brittany whilst we walked to Montparnasse, and thought it a suitable topic. "Vaughn, tell me more about your family in Brittany." He looked rather put out, and said only, "My father is a fisherman in Morlaix--foolish man. We haven't seen each other in ages. I pity my mother most for having been sentenced to a life with a man whose only ambition is to troll the English Channel for sardines." Vaughn continued to slice into his sweet potato croquette. As for me, I had rather lost my appetite. Vaughn, no doubt noticing my unrest, set down his silver and placed his napkin on his seat. He moved to stand beside me and said, "Come with me." He lead me to a chaise by the fire. I felt I could not bear much more of this, Maisie. I began to consider my options in excusing myself when he spoke, "You were unconscious when I found you." He swept the curls from my shoulder, his fingers lightly brushing my skin. He had certainly captured my attention with this announcement. I felt my heart race at the thought of being at his mercy--without even my wits about me!--and struggled for clarity of mind as I said, "There is much I do not recall about that night." "Well, the monster holding you hostage was certainly not going to harm you once I had found you." Something in my heart began to soften at the thought of this chivalry. Vaughn continued, "Mr. Westley was certainly thorough in alerting the authorities and in offering a handsome reward for your return, but I simply could not sit and wait for the police to discover your body in some godforsaken place." He rested his hand atop mine, and I could not help but take comfort in his generosity and sacrifice on my behalf. I replied, "You must accept my apology for my recent behaviour--I had never predicted it was you ... I suppose I have neglected you from the very start ... " He smirked, "Well, I am sure it is not difficult to conclude how preposterous your whimsical ideas of Eduard and Peter were." I flinched away from him as he said the name. "What do you know of Peter?" I leapt up from his side and began to back away from him. Vaughn's complexion blanched white, "I--I simply mean that your friend, Peter, is too far removed from your life here in Paris to possibly care for you the way that I do." I stared at him for a moment before asking, "Have I mentioned Peter?" Vaughn was smiling again, and in a calming tone replied, "Yes, Adeline ... of course." He clasped my hands in his. "Do you honestly not recall, Adeline? Shall I call on Doctor Laroche? I am confident I could have him here within the hour." The wild thumping of my heart slowed, and I spent a moment regaining my composure. "No--no, that will not be necessary. I would be grieved at the thought of worrying my uncle any further with the matter." With a gentle hand, Vaughn turned my face to his and said, "This is what is real, Adeline. On me, you can rely." A strange certainty began to creep its way toward my heart. It seemed to me that truer words had never been spoken. The world at that moment might be full to the brim with men of good intention, but Vaughn was the only man who cared enough for me to act. Vaughn's sincere offer of protection seemed to satisfy a need I had not known to be so utterly wanting. At the close of the evening, after Vaughn had escorted me home, I turned to him and said, "Will you find some time for me again?" Vaughn kissed my cheek and whispered in my ear, "How could I not?" I retired to bed that evening with a feeling of security that I had not felt for some time, Maisie--I daresay since before I left London. I think it is high time for me to be sensible and practical. I think of the time we have wasted on both Peter and Stuart ... and to what end?
I am eager to hear your latest news.
Yours,
Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
Letter 36 - Sense and Sensibility
Miss Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
18 April 1903
Dearest Addie,
I received your letter with gladness, but read it with mounting concern. I cannot begin to fathom the horror of your experience--and for these recollections to come on you so suddenly! I also know that you have experienced much disappointment in regard to your suitors, and I fear this revelation regarding Mr. Rousseau might be, in your mind, the worst of the lot. However I may dislike him for his past treatment of you, it would not do to show him less than gratitude for the service he has rendered. But you do not owe him more than that, Addie, and I beg you to remember it. Even wrapped up in my own concerns as I have been--how selfish and indulgent!--I cannot repress the curiosity that your letter has inspired in me. It seems to me that Mr. Rousseau has been suing for your favor as long as he has known you, yet he held back his part in your rescue for some time ... what can he mean by it?
I have news for you as well, and it is perhaps not less puzzling than your own, if for altogether different reasons. Stuart came calling for me the day after I left him in Green Park, and I baldly refused to receive him. Dad was rather concerned, Mum was abidingly patient, and Peter--as far as I know--was entirely ignorant of my situation. Stuart came to apply for an audience with me every day for a week, and I dutifully refused him each time, and was quite miserable for my pains. Mum was persistent in inviting my confidence, and at length I explained to her all that was troubling me. I did not enter into details, of course, not wishing to indict Stuart to the point that his reputation might be harmed, but I expressed the painful conclusion that I had been intentionally deceived. It was not difficult for her to convince me to speak with Stuart, and allow him the opportunity to acquit himself. I am not unaware of the irony which attended my interventions on his behalf--why should I care for the maintenance of his good name if I truly believed him to be unworthy of it? The natural conclusion is that I was quite as eager as Mum to have the lie explained away, and so, having gained the patronage of my mother for what had been my dearest wish all along, I dressed for the outdoors the following morning and prepared to receive Stuart at last. I was not keen to have my accusations overheard by any other member of the household, and so I asked Stuart to walk out with me, and he obliged. I was painfully reminded of the last time we had walked thus together, and I could not bring myself to accept the arm he offered as we started out toward the park. I had decided to allow Stuart a chance to excuse himself, but hadn't any idea of how to begin. At length, as we rounded the pond, Stuart spoke. "How have I offended you, Maisie?" His voice was gentle, and his every gesture careful and subdued.
"I do not fancy being lied to, Mr. Hill."
"But what lie do you speak of?" Had Stuart been innocent, this query might have passed as his attempt to discover the root of my confusion, and thereby to correct my understanding. As I knew he was quite guilty, it suddenly occurred to me that he had likely been party to more deceit than this, and wished to discern which untruth I had uncovered so as to avoid revealing any of the others by misstep. This, I confess, spurred my anger and prompted me to speak with more passion than I had intended.
"Do not pretend with me, Stuart! Do you deny knowing that your friend Mr. Collins was dead long before you supposedly met him at Portobello Market?"
At this, Stuart ceased walking. I do not know that I have ever seen him at such a loss. He covered his face with one hand for a moment, then seemed to come to a decision. "I do not deny it." I had not expected this, Addie. I had been sure he would attempt to cover his lie with yet more prevarication. But I was glad, in a perverse sort of way. My anger had been vindicated, and I could unleash it on its object without scruple. I no longer cared who overheard. "Then what were you about, Stuart? If you knew the man was not Mr. Collins, why did you address him as such?"
"'Collins' is what he called himself. I merely played along."
Again, his response staggered me. Was this honesty, then? I looked up at Stuart to find him gazing back at me, his brow creased and his green eyes intense with apparent concern. His right arm twitched slightly toward me as I looked at him, but he seemed to think better of the impulse and clasped his hands firmly behind his back, frowning slightly. "I don't understand you, Stuart. Why would you do such a thing? To what purpose?" Stuart exhaled sharply, smiling grimly as he shook his head. "Maisie, I am sadly unqualified. Or, more probably, you are exceptional. Whatever am I to do with you?" This last was delivered in a rueful tone, but Stuart's smile had lost some of its bitterness, and he reached for my hand as he spoke. I snatched it away from his reach. Indeed! Had he supposed I would be softened by such a cryptic speech? I could only think that he was toying with me again, and it rendered me quite furious. "Mr. Hill, unless you can explain your behaviour to my satisfaction, I have nothing more to say to you." He attempted to tip my chin up to meet his gaze but I swatted his hand away with all the energy of my indignation. It did not help that he met this violence with what could only be described as amusement and admiration, and had the cheek to say, "You are so very irresistible when you are in a temper." I had never slapped a man before, Addie, but I slapped his face with every bit of strength I could muster, and turned to leave him. He caught my arm and I turned back with every intention of slapping him again, but the look on his face stayed my hand. His expression was grave, yet behind the gravity I could just perceive an anguish so well concealed that it could only be genuine. What was Stuart to do with me? Indeed, what was I to do with him? Such a mixture of fury and compassion as I felt must surely have torn me apart and turned all the world topsy-turvy--and yet I remained whole, and the frozen earth beneath my boots was as solid as ever. Stuart released my arm and continued to gaze at me in silence--if he had any inkling of the involuntary sympathy I felt for him at that moment he gave no sign of it. All trace of levity had left him, and his voice was almost too low for me to hear.
"Am I to lose you over this, then?"
Addie, I am ashamed to tell you that I was nearly taken in again. Every instinct I possessed urged me to go to him, to comfort him, to assure him of my continued tender feelings for him. It was exceedingly troubling to discover the extent of the power he held over me, yet it was something much less ominous which checked my highly inappropriate impulses. I had not noticed his approach, absorbed in my own feelings as I had been, but at that moment I was addressed by a passerby who I assumed must have witnessed my assault on Stuart, and I felt my face flush with the heat of embarrassment. The man glanced at Stuart in a wary sort of way, planted himself firmly between us, and spoke earnestly to me. "Has this man harmed you? Shall I escort you home?" I was in no mood to explain myself to a stranger, and opened my lips to speak the words that would send him on his way, when my eyes fell on his face, and I recognized him. He was the very same cadet who had given me the clue to Stuart's undoing--but what coincidence was this? Before I could gather my thoughts, he spoke again, "Miss Bristow? I assure you that you are no longer in danger. If you would like to enter a complaint against this fellow, you have only to give the word." Stuart started at the sound of my name, and seemed to consider the cadet for the first time. After a brief study, however, he proceeded to ignore the cadet, and looked at me in wonder, "Do you know this man, Maisie?" Both men paused to wait for my response, and it was awkward indeed, but I answered that I did. The cadet looked very satisfied, and turned a challenging look on Stuart, who was more than half a head taller than himself. "I am Police Constable James Murphy," he said calmly, "and I advise you to depart at once." A great change was wrought upon Stuart--his face was suddenly alive with incredulity. He looked back and forth between us for a moment before focusing on me, and then asked, "Maisie, is it your wish for me to go?" It occurred to me that if I wished it, Stuart would go, and I was certain that my verbal expression of that wish would signify more to Stuart than it would to P.C. Murphy. Even more distressing was the sure knowledge that I did not want to send Stuart away. So strong was my wish for him to stay that I knew I must be merciless in my decision--the danger was too great. If I allowed myself the smallest modicum of indulgence, I felt sure I should never manage to detach myself from this man who thought it nothing to lie to me. It was not easy--it may in fact have been the most difficult thing I have ever been constrained to do--but I took the constable's offered arm and said, "Yes, Mr. Hill. I think it best you should go. P.C. Murphy will see me home." This accomplishment was not without cost. I could not bring myself to look at Stuart as I spoke, but I risked a glance as he replied. His expression was perfectly composed, his tone distant. He bowed slightly in my direction and said only, "I am at your service, Miss Bristow ," before turning away. I was ashamed that my own eyes had begun to fill with tears, and endeavored to quash the unwelcome emotion stirred up by the sight of Stuart's retreating form. P.C. Murphy seemed to sense that he was not privy to all that had passed between us, but was polite enough not to inquire as he walked me back to the mews. It occurred to me that he seemed to know the way, as I was no use at all and merely allowed him to guide me, and at length I asked him how he had come to find me. "Yes, that. I came to call on you, and your charming mother informed me that you were walking in the park." Dazed as I was by what had just occurred, this struck me as curious. "You ... came to call on me?" He smiled kindly and, as we were coming up on the Italian Gardens, asked if I would like to rest for a moment. I told him that I did, and he guided me to a bench with an excellent view of the fountains. "I must confess that I could not feel satisfied abandoning you in the state in which I saw you last, and here you are a week later, and you seem no better." I must have blushed--I surely felt self-conscious--for he added, "Forgive my familiarity. I should not have mentioned it. It is only that concern for you has guided my actions in coming to call on you--I had wished to find you in better spirits. I hope you are not still upset over the news of your friend? Indeed, I had meant to comfort you by it." I knew I should have felt gratitude toward him, Addie, and I think I did, but that most noble emotion was so greatly eclipsed by the anxiety I felt in regard to Stuart that I was hardly in any condition to do it justice. I said nothing, but smiled weakly at him, and he continued, "The ... gentleman ... who just left us--I have seen him on more than one occasion in Victoria Street. I wish I had taken more notice of him, as he is obviously a person to be monitored. I hope he did not offend you too grievously?" As little as I wished to speak of it, I could not deny the truth of what he suggested, and I steeled myself enough to say, "I am afraid that he did. I have just ended our engagement to be married." P.C. Murphy was understandably taken aback, but did not press for particulars. He merely expressed his regrets for my disappointment, and, as I had risen, offered me his arm and accompanied me home. I did not truly wish it, but I thought it courtesy to ask him to stay for tea. He cordially declined, however, claiming a previous engagement, and expressed the hope that he might be extended another such invitation in future. I was not sorry to see him go, and, ignoring Mum's attempts to question me, fled to my room and remained there until the following morning. I would likely not have roused even then, but for Mum's insistence that a letter had been delivered for me, and her refusal to give it into my possession unless I would wash and dress and come downstairs. Accordingly, I succumbed to her wishes. When she was satisfied she placed the letter on the table before me and excused herself from the dining room. I had hoped wildly,wrongly, that it might be from Stuart, and I was not disappointed.
My dear Maisie,
I am deeply sorry for my light treatment of your concerns yesterday. I was so relieved to discover the cause of your rejection, and to realise that it was of no import, that I allowed myself to approach cheerfulness too soon. Please forgive this error on my part, and know that it was only the sudden removal of the heavy burden of care which I had borne these past seven days which occasioned it. I ought to have exercised better judgment, and given more thought to the fact that your mind was not yet relieved of worry.
When you told me to go ... I admit I was, once again, despondent. It seemed to me that your desire for my absence might be a permanent condition of your heart, and this was not a welcome thought. I realise that I am not yet clear of the danger of losing you. Therefore, I approach what I must tell you next with great trepidation. You asked for a satisfactory explanation of my deception regarding the man whom I led you to believe was Joseph Collins. Maisie, I cannot give it. I can assure you that my actions were necessary and prudent, and that the consequence of my being constrained to deceive you was not entered into lightly on my part. You will remember my plea for forgiveness that very day, and you must believe it was in earnest. However, I can explain no further, and I must ask you to abandon the subject from here and forward. It is not within my power to satisfy you in this matter, and I beg you to grant me grace and forbearance.
If you can find it within your capacity to trust me, Maisie, please make it known. For my part, I shall no longer attempt to displease you with my presence unless you ask for it.
I am, respectfully,
Your obedient servant,
Stuart Hill
Addie, how I wish for your advice and sympathy! It has been a week already since I received this missive, and I have yet to make a reply. I have explained my peculiar weakness when it comes to Stuart, and I very much fear it might take precedence in light of this most eloquent petition for pardon. Why cannot it be simple? My heart is in favor of forgiveness, but my intelligence begs my heart to please refrain from such utter foolishness. How is it that affection for a man can lead to such hostilities within myself? Write with all haste!
Sincerely,
Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
18 April 1903
Dearest Addie,
I received your letter with gladness, but read it with mounting concern. I cannot begin to fathom the horror of your experience--and for these recollections to come on you so suddenly! I also know that you have experienced much disappointment in regard to your suitors, and I fear this revelation regarding Mr. Rousseau might be, in your mind, the worst of the lot. However I may dislike him for his past treatment of you, it would not do to show him less than gratitude for the service he has rendered. But you do not owe him more than that, Addie, and I beg you to remember it. Even wrapped up in my own concerns as I have been--how selfish and indulgent!--I cannot repress the curiosity that your letter has inspired in me. It seems to me that Mr. Rousseau has been suing for your favor as long as he has known you, yet he held back his part in your rescue for some time ... what can he mean by it?
I have news for you as well, and it is perhaps not less puzzling than your own, if for altogether different reasons. Stuart came calling for me the day after I left him in Green Park, and I baldly refused to receive him. Dad was rather concerned, Mum was abidingly patient, and Peter--as far as I know--was entirely ignorant of my situation. Stuart came to apply for an audience with me every day for a week, and I dutifully refused him each time, and was quite miserable for my pains. Mum was persistent in inviting my confidence, and at length I explained to her all that was troubling me. I did not enter into details, of course, not wishing to indict Stuart to the point that his reputation might be harmed, but I expressed the painful conclusion that I had been intentionally deceived. It was not difficult for her to convince me to speak with Stuart, and allow him the opportunity to acquit himself. I am not unaware of the irony which attended my interventions on his behalf--why should I care for the maintenance of his good name if I truly believed him to be unworthy of it? The natural conclusion is that I was quite as eager as Mum to have the lie explained away, and so, having gained the patronage of my mother for what had been my dearest wish all along, I dressed for the outdoors the following morning and prepared to receive Stuart at last. I was not keen to have my accusations overheard by any other member of the household, and so I asked Stuart to walk out with me, and he obliged. I was painfully reminded of the last time we had walked thus together, and I could not bring myself to accept the arm he offered as we started out toward the park. I had decided to allow Stuart a chance to excuse himself, but hadn't any idea of how to begin. At length, as we rounded the pond, Stuart spoke. "How have I offended you, Maisie?" His voice was gentle, and his every gesture careful and subdued.
"I do not fancy being lied to, Mr. Hill."
"But what lie do you speak of?" Had Stuart been innocent, this query might have passed as his attempt to discover the root of my confusion, and thereby to correct my understanding. As I knew he was quite guilty, it suddenly occurred to me that he had likely been party to more deceit than this, and wished to discern which untruth I had uncovered so as to avoid revealing any of the others by misstep. This, I confess, spurred my anger and prompted me to speak with more passion than I had intended.
"Do not pretend with me, Stuart! Do you deny knowing that your friend Mr. Collins was dead long before you supposedly met him at Portobello Market?"
At this, Stuart ceased walking. I do not know that I have ever seen him at such a loss. He covered his face with one hand for a moment, then seemed to come to a decision. "I do not deny it." I had not expected this, Addie. I had been sure he would attempt to cover his lie with yet more prevarication. But I was glad, in a perverse sort of way. My anger had been vindicated, and I could unleash it on its object without scruple. I no longer cared who overheard. "Then what were you about, Stuart? If you knew the man was not Mr. Collins, why did you address him as such?"
"'Collins' is what he called himself. I merely played along."
Again, his response staggered me. Was this honesty, then? I looked up at Stuart to find him gazing back at me, his brow creased and his green eyes intense with apparent concern. His right arm twitched slightly toward me as I looked at him, but he seemed to think better of the impulse and clasped his hands firmly behind his back, frowning slightly. "I don't understand you, Stuart. Why would you do such a thing? To what purpose?" Stuart exhaled sharply, smiling grimly as he shook his head. "Maisie, I am sadly unqualified. Or, more probably, you are exceptional. Whatever am I to do with you?" This last was delivered in a rueful tone, but Stuart's smile had lost some of its bitterness, and he reached for my hand as he spoke. I snatched it away from his reach. Indeed! Had he supposed I would be softened by such a cryptic speech? I could only think that he was toying with me again, and it rendered me quite furious. "Mr. Hill, unless you can explain your behaviour to my satisfaction, I have nothing more to say to you." He attempted to tip my chin up to meet his gaze but I swatted his hand away with all the energy of my indignation. It did not help that he met this violence with what could only be described as amusement and admiration, and had the cheek to say, "You are so very irresistible when you are in a temper." I had never slapped a man before, Addie, but I slapped his face with every bit of strength I could muster, and turned to leave him. He caught my arm and I turned back with every intention of slapping him again, but the look on his face stayed my hand. His expression was grave, yet behind the gravity I could just perceive an anguish so well concealed that it could only be genuine. What was Stuart to do with me? Indeed, what was I to do with him? Such a mixture of fury and compassion as I felt must surely have torn me apart and turned all the world topsy-turvy--and yet I remained whole, and the frozen earth beneath my boots was as solid as ever. Stuart released my arm and continued to gaze at me in silence--if he had any inkling of the involuntary sympathy I felt for him at that moment he gave no sign of it. All trace of levity had left him, and his voice was almost too low for me to hear.
"Am I to lose you over this, then?"
Addie, I am ashamed to tell you that I was nearly taken in again. Every instinct I possessed urged me to go to him, to comfort him, to assure him of my continued tender feelings for him. It was exceedingly troubling to discover the extent of the power he held over me, yet it was something much less ominous which checked my highly inappropriate impulses. I had not noticed his approach, absorbed in my own feelings as I had been, but at that moment I was addressed by a passerby who I assumed must have witnessed my assault on Stuart, and I felt my face flush with the heat of embarrassment. The man glanced at Stuart in a wary sort of way, planted himself firmly between us, and spoke earnestly to me. "Has this man harmed you? Shall I escort you home?" I was in no mood to explain myself to a stranger, and opened my lips to speak the words that would send him on his way, when my eyes fell on his face, and I recognized him. He was the very same cadet who had given me the clue to Stuart's undoing--but what coincidence was this? Before I could gather my thoughts, he spoke again, "Miss Bristow? I assure you that you are no longer in danger. If you would like to enter a complaint against this fellow, you have only to give the word." Stuart started at the sound of my name, and seemed to consider the cadet for the first time. After a brief study, however, he proceeded to ignore the cadet, and looked at me in wonder, "Do you know this man, Maisie?" Both men paused to wait for my response, and it was awkward indeed, but I answered that I did. The cadet looked very satisfied, and turned a challenging look on Stuart, who was more than half a head taller than himself. "I am Police Constable James Murphy," he said calmly, "and I advise you to depart at once." A great change was wrought upon Stuart--his face was suddenly alive with incredulity. He looked back and forth between us for a moment before focusing on me, and then asked, "Maisie, is it your wish for me to go?" It occurred to me that if I wished it, Stuart would go, and I was certain that my verbal expression of that wish would signify more to Stuart than it would to P.C. Murphy. Even more distressing was the sure knowledge that I did not want to send Stuart away. So strong was my wish for him to stay that I knew I must be merciless in my decision--the danger was too great. If I allowed myself the smallest modicum of indulgence, I felt sure I should never manage to detach myself from this man who thought it nothing to lie to me. It was not easy--it may in fact have been the most difficult thing I have ever been constrained to do--but I took the constable's offered arm and said, "Yes, Mr. Hill. I think it best you should go. P.C. Murphy will see me home." This accomplishment was not without cost. I could not bring myself to look at Stuart as I spoke, but I risked a glance as he replied. His expression was perfectly composed, his tone distant. He bowed slightly in my direction and said only, "I am at your service, Miss Bristow ," before turning away. I was ashamed that my own eyes had begun to fill with tears, and endeavored to quash the unwelcome emotion stirred up by the sight of Stuart's retreating form. P.C. Murphy seemed to sense that he was not privy to all that had passed between us, but was polite enough not to inquire as he walked me back to the mews. It occurred to me that he seemed to know the way, as I was no use at all and merely allowed him to guide me, and at length I asked him how he had come to find me. "Yes, that. I came to call on you, and your charming mother informed me that you were walking in the park." Dazed as I was by what had just occurred, this struck me as curious. "You ... came to call on me?" He smiled kindly and, as we were coming up on the Italian Gardens, asked if I would like to rest for a moment. I told him that I did, and he guided me to a bench with an excellent view of the fountains. "I must confess that I could not feel satisfied abandoning you in the state in which I saw you last, and here you are a week later, and you seem no better." I must have blushed--I surely felt self-conscious--for he added, "Forgive my familiarity. I should not have mentioned it. It is only that concern for you has guided my actions in coming to call on you--I had wished to find you in better spirits. I hope you are not still upset over the news of your friend? Indeed, I had meant to comfort you by it." I knew I should have felt gratitude toward him, Addie, and I think I did, but that most noble emotion was so greatly eclipsed by the anxiety I felt in regard to Stuart that I was hardly in any condition to do it justice. I said nothing, but smiled weakly at him, and he continued, "The ... gentleman ... who just left us--I have seen him on more than one occasion in Victoria Street. I wish I had taken more notice of him, as he is obviously a person to be monitored. I hope he did not offend you too grievously?" As little as I wished to speak of it, I could not deny the truth of what he suggested, and I steeled myself enough to say, "I am afraid that he did. I have just ended our engagement to be married." P.C. Murphy was understandably taken aback, but did not press for particulars. He merely expressed his regrets for my disappointment, and, as I had risen, offered me his arm and accompanied me home. I did not truly wish it, but I thought it courtesy to ask him to stay for tea. He cordially declined, however, claiming a previous engagement, and expressed the hope that he might be extended another such invitation in future. I was not sorry to see him go, and, ignoring Mum's attempts to question me, fled to my room and remained there until the following morning. I would likely not have roused even then, but for Mum's insistence that a letter had been delivered for me, and her refusal to give it into my possession unless I would wash and dress and come downstairs. Accordingly, I succumbed to her wishes. When she was satisfied she placed the letter on the table before me and excused herself from the dining room. I had hoped wildly,wrongly, that it might be from Stuart, and I was not disappointed.
My dear Maisie,
I am deeply sorry for my light treatment of your concerns yesterday. I was so relieved to discover the cause of your rejection, and to realise that it was of no import, that I allowed myself to approach cheerfulness too soon. Please forgive this error on my part, and know that it was only the sudden removal of the heavy burden of care which I had borne these past seven days which occasioned it. I ought to have exercised better judgment, and given more thought to the fact that your mind was not yet relieved of worry.
When you told me to go ... I admit I was, once again, despondent. It seemed to me that your desire for my absence might be a permanent condition of your heart, and this was not a welcome thought. I realise that I am not yet clear of the danger of losing you. Therefore, I approach what I must tell you next with great trepidation. You asked for a satisfactory explanation of my deception regarding the man whom I led you to believe was Joseph Collins. Maisie, I cannot give it. I can assure you that my actions were necessary and prudent, and that the consequence of my being constrained to deceive you was not entered into lightly on my part. You will remember my plea for forgiveness that very day, and you must believe it was in earnest. However, I can explain no further, and I must ask you to abandon the subject from here and forward. It is not within my power to satisfy you in this matter, and I beg you to grant me grace and forbearance.
If you can find it within your capacity to trust me, Maisie, please make it known. For my part, I shall no longer attempt to displease you with my presence unless you ask for it.
I am, respectfully,
Your obedient servant,
Stuart Hill
Addie, how I wish for your advice and sympathy! It has been a week already since I received this missive, and I have yet to make a reply. I have explained my peculiar weakness when it comes to Stuart, and I very much fear it might take precedence in light of this most eloquent petition for pardon. Why cannot it be simple? My heart is in favor of forgiveness, but my intelligence begs my heart to please refrain from such utter foolishness. How is it that affection for a man can lead to such hostilities within myself? Write with all haste!
Sincerely,
Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London
Letter 35 - Marché aux Fleurs
Miss Maitland Bristow
14 Bathurst Mews
London
10 April 1903
Dearest Maisie,
My dearest of friends, how can I be of any consolation to you? I simply cannot fathom, any more than you can, a reason for Stuart's deceit. I will not feign to know the tribulations of your heart. My words seem of little use at a time such as this. If only I were there with you. You seem so certain all is lost, but if I know Stuart Hill, he shall not give you up so easily. Perhaps there is some tiny shred of goodness to be discovered amidst this madness. If there is anything at all that I can do for you, simply name it, Maisie .... I am happy that at the least you were able to spend some time with Peter. I am glad he is in good health.
I do have some news of my own to relay. It is rather disappointing, to say the least. Naturally, as all unpleasant things seem to begin, this bit of news pertains to the ever-present Vaughn Rousseau. This morning was the day I have dreaded ever since my return from Montparnasse--the day my conniving French tutor would return. The subject of my daily disgust and angst arrived precisely on the hour in the library. Madame Fifi came to alert me to his presence, but she must have been aware that I had been keenly listening for him all the morning; she did not press me to hurry as she usually does. I do not doubt that word of his lie has spread throughout the ranks of the household. I could feel my cheeks flush red as his name passed Madame Fifi's lips, and that rather ill feeling that Vaughn always seems to illicit accompanied me down the stairs as a myriad of indignant lectures sprang up in my mind--any of which I would have been happy to unleash upon him. I entered the room and there he was, sitting and casually thumbing through a book he had retrieved from the shelf. I sat down. I felt more uneasy than angry now; I had been so sure he would be fumbling over some poorly recited apology for his behaviour in Montparnasse. But there he sat, flipping through the pages of this book, paying me no mind at all. I say, Maisie, I was certainly not going to initiate conversation with the man! I crossed my ankles and folded my hands in my lap. Rousseau finally spoke, albeit without looking up from his book, "Good morning Adeline. I trust you have befittingly recovered from your drunken tryst in Montparnasse?" I was quite completely abashed--but the gullibility of my mind (which I am sure he had counted upon) did not outlast the realisation that Vaughn was only pointing out my indiscretions to detract attention from his own. I responded in my most flippant tone, "Well, I must admit, 'twas difficult to recover from my faux pas without the arms of my dear husband to help guide me." Vaughn put down his reading at once. He looked directly at me with fierceness, "Adeline, do you pretend not to understand?" Maisie, I assure you there was no pretense on my part. I felt altogether lost. I looked about the room, hoping to observe some obvious clue I had been neglecting, and stammered, "Vaughn--I do not know what--" He interrupted, his grimace hardening as he rose from his seat behind the desk. Spittle flew from his mouth as he chastised me, "You innocent young girl. Eduard never cared one whit for you." He was leaning in over the desk now, "I was the one who ransomed you from your captor." I felt suddenly weak, and subdued by this news . . . Vaughn saved me? He bent double to retrieve a bouquet of wretched lilies that had been at his feet. Instantly transformed, he proffered them to me and said softly, his voice cracking at the sudden shift, "I procured these on the Place Louis Lépine. You found it charming, did you not, when you went in search of purple irises for Madame Fifette?" He smiled with satisfaction as I silently took the lilies and began to restore order to the items on the desk that had been disheveled during his fit. I began to feel feverish, and quite physically unwell. Madame Fifi entered, and, upon measuring me with a shrewd look, said, "Is everything well? I heard you raise your voice to Miss Westley." She fixed an accusing gaze on Mr. Rousseau, and he returned it with one of haughty indignation, replying in a prideful tone, "Well, you know how difficult Miss Westley can be. She becomes so easily confused by the simplest of concepts." I stood and turned to Madame Fifi before she could leave, "Madame, please--I am not well--please reschedule Mr. Rousseau for another time. I cannot continue my lesson in this state." Madame Fifi turned to Vaughn with evident satisfaction, "Well, you heard mademoiselle--off you go." Madame Fifi shunted him to the door, notwithstanding his bargaining to stay. I went immediately to my bed. The idea that Vaughn was my saviour was sour in my stomach. I closed my eyes, trying to ward off the intruding vision of Vaughn saving my life, when the most peculiar oddity struck me: Vaughn had asked how I liked Place Louis Lépine--only, I have never been to the flower market to buy irises for Madame Fifi, or for any other reason . . . or had I? That moment, an image flickered in my recollection: I could see tiers of various perennials around me. There were cabbage roses, irises and gerberas in splendid yellows, pinks and scarlets. The smell of rosemary bushes and lavender perfumed the air. I could hear the barges trolling through fog over the Seine--perhaps I was on the Ile Saint Louis--no--it must have been the Ile de la Cité--I could see the two towers of Notre Dame. Indeed, I carried in my arms a handsome bunch of violet flowers. Through the thick air, a tall man approached me. He possessed a fine but worried countenance, his eyebrows drawing together, he asked me if I would assist him in finding a lost boy's mother. He explained that the boy was but five or six years of age, and quite afraid. I remember agreeing most immediately, and following the man with great urgency as he led me to the alley just behind the flower peddlers. He paused, and my eyes searched the empty alleyway for the child. I walked a few paces, my footsteps echoing in the damp street; the boy was nowhere to be seen. I turned to ask the man, "The boy--has he run off?" The stranger, saying nothing, walked slowly toward me, pulling a dampened handkerchief from his breast pocket. At that moment I knew I had made a grave mistake. The clatter of an approaching carriage ceased at the entrance to the alley. An uncultured voice called out, "Shapcott! We haven't got time for you to play a game of loll tongue! Do her down and let's hook it!" I looked up and into the man's dark eyes as he walked straight toward me, and then there was a flood of realisation--I knew him. It was the man my father brought home for me to wed. He was not immediately recognisable to me without the beard that had seemed to cover much of his face--but the black eyes were burned into my memory. I opened my mouth to scream--but the man seized me and covered my nose and mouth with the damp handkerchief. I remember the flowers falling onto the cobblestone street, and then there was nothing.
I can only wish for these vile recollections to stop, Maisie. It profits me nothing to relive these events, and I had much rather put it all behind me. I do feel rather sheepish that I was unable to compose myself long enough to require Vaughn to answer some questions about the ordeal. However did he find me? What's more, why did he not deliver me to Mr. Westley himself? I do not relish seeing him, but I must endure if I am to get the answers to my questions. Perhaps I should be grateful--I have wished these many nights to know the identity of my rescuer--and yet I cannot repress the profound disappointment of this discovery, Maisie. The thought of my rescuer had given me something of hope to cling to, but to know it was only Rousseau ... I feel as if I had bitten into an apple and found it to be made of wax. But all of this is trifling, and pales in comparison to your dashed dreams of a life with Stuart. I have no doubt you will have much more news for me in your next letter. Do take care. You are in my thoughts, always.
Yours,
Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
14 Bathurst Mews
London
10 April 1903
Dearest Maisie,
My dearest of friends, how can I be of any consolation to you? I simply cannot fathom, any more than you can, a reason for Stuart's deceit. I will not feign to know the tribulations of your heart. My words seem of little use at a time such as this. If only I were there with you. You seem so certain all is lost, but if I know Stuart Hill, he shall not give you up so easily. Perhaps there is some tiny shred of goodness to be discovered amidst this madness. If there is anything at all that I can do for you, simply name it, Maisie .... I am happy that at the least you were able to spend some time with Peter. I am glad he is in good health.
I do have some news of my own to relay. It is rather disappointing, to say the least. Naturally, as all unpleasant things seem to begin, this bit of news pertains to the ever-present Vaughn Rousseau. This morning was the day I have dreaded ever since my return from Montparnasse--the day my conniving French tutor would return. The subject of my daily disgust and angst arrived precisely on the hour in the library. Madame Fifi came to alert me to his presence, but she must have been aware that I had been keenly listening for him all the morning; she did not press me to hurry as she usually does. I do not doubt that word of his lie has spread throughout the ranks of the household. I could feel my cheeks flush red as his name passed Madame Fifi's lips, and that rather ill feeling that Vaughn always seems to illicit accompanied me down the stairs as a myriad of indignant lectures sprang up in my mind--any of which I would have been happy to unleash upon him. I entered the room and there he was, sitting and casually thumbing through a book he had retrieved from the shelf. I sat down. I felt more uneasy than angry now; I had been so sure he would be fumbling over some poorly recited apology for his behaviour in Montparnasse. But there he sat, flipping through the pages of this book, paying me no mind at all. I say, Maisie, I was certainly not going to initiate conversation with the man! I crossed my ankles and folded my hands in my lap. Rousseau finally spoke, albeit without looking up from his book, "Good morning Adeline. I trust you have befittingly recovered from your drunken tryst in Montparnasse?" I was quite completely abashed--but the gullibility of my mind (which I am sure he had counted upon) did not outlast the realisation that Vaughn was only pointing out my indiscretions to detract attention from his own. I responded in my most flippant tone, "Well, I must admit, 'twas difficult to recover from my faux pas without the arms of my dear husband to help guide me." Vaughn put down his reading at once. He looked directly at me with fierceness, "Adeline, do you pretend not to understand?" Maisie, I assure you there was no pretense on my part. I felt altogether lost. I looked about the room, hoping to observe some obvious clue I had been neglecting, and stammered, "Vaughn--I do not know what--" He interrupted, his grimace hardening as he rose from his seat behind the desk. Spittle flew from his mouth as he chastised me, "You innocent young girl. Eduard never cared one whit for you." He was leaning in over the desk now, "I was the one who ransomed you from your captor." I felt suddenly weak, and subdued by this news . . . Vaughn saved me? He bent double to retrieve a bouquet of wretched lilies that had been at his feet. Instantly transformed, he proffered them to me and said softly, his voice cracking at the sudden shift, "I procured these on the Place Louis Lépine. You found it charming, did you not, when you went in search of purple irises for Madame Fifette?" He smiled with satisfaction as I silently took the lilies and began to restore order to the items on the desk that had been disheveled during his fit. I began to feel feverish, and quite physically unwell. Madame Fifi entered, and, upon measuring me with a shrewd look, said, "Is everything well? I heard you raise your voice to Miss Westley." She fixed an accusing gaze on Mr. Rousseau, and he returned it with one of haughty indignation, replying in a prideful tone, "Well, you know how difficult Miss Westley can be. She becomes so easily confused by the simplest of concepts." I stood and turned to Madame Fifi before she could leave, "Madame, please--I am not well--please reschedule Mr. Rousseau for another time. I cannot continue my lesson in this state." Madame Fifi turned to Vaughn with evident satisfaction, "Well, you heard mademoiselle--off you go." Madame Fifi shunted him to the door, notwithstanding his bargaining to stay. I went immediately to my bed. The idea that Vaughn was my saviour was sour in my stomach. I closed my eyes, trying to ward off the intruding vision of Vaughn saving my life, when the most peculiar oddity struck me: Vaughn had asked how I liked Place Louis Lépine--only, I have never been to the flower market to buy irises for Madame Fifi, or for any other reason . . . or had I? That moment, an image flickered in my recollection: I could see tiers of various perennials around me. There were cabbage roses, irises and gerberas in splendid yellows, pinks and scarlets. The smell of rosemary bushes and lavender perfumed the air. I could hear the barges trolling through fog over the Seine--perhaps I was on the Ile Saint Louis--no--it must have been the Ile de la Cité--I could see the two towers of Notre Dame. Indeed, I carried in my arms a handsome bunch of violet flowers. Through the thick air, a tall man approached me. He possessed a fine but worried countenance, his eyebrows drawing together, he asked me if I would assist him in finding a lost boy's mother. He explained that the boy was but five or six years of age, and quite afraid. I remember agreeing most immediately, and following the man with great urgency as he led me to the alley just behind the flower peddlers. He paused, and my eyes searched the empty alleyway for the child. I walked a few paces, my footsteps echoing in the damp street; the boy was nowhere to be seen. I turned to ask the man, "The boy--has he run off?" The stranger, saying nothing, walked slowly toward me, pulling a dampened handkerchief from his breast pocket. At that moment I knew I had made a grave mistake. The clatter of an approaching carriage ceased at the entrance to the alley. An uncultured voice called out, "Shapcott! We haven't got time for you to play a game of loll tongue! Do her down and let's hook it!" I looked up and into the man's dark eyes as he walked straight toward me, and then there was a flood of realisation--I knew him. It was the man my father brought home for me to wed. He was not immediately recognisable to me without the beard that had seemed to cover much of his face--but the black eyes were burned into my memory. I opened my mouth to scream--but the man seized me and covered my nose and mouth with the damp handkerchief. I remember the flowers falling onto the cobblestone street, and then there was nothing.
I can only wish for these vile recollections to stop, Maisie. It profits me nothing to relive these events, and I had much rather put it all behind me. I do feel rather sheepish that I was unable to compose myself long enough to require Vaughn to answer some questions about the ordeal. However did he find me? What's more, why did he not deliver me to Mr. Westley himself? I do not relish seeing him, but I must endure if I am to get the answers to my questions. Perhaps I should be grateful--I have wished these many nights to know the identity of my rescuer--and yet I cannot repress the profound disappointment of this discovery, Maisie. The thought of my rescuer had given me something of hope to cling to, but to know it was only Rousseau ... I feel as if I had bitten into an apple and found it to be made of wax. But all of this is trifling, and pales in comparison to your dashed dreams of a life with Stuart. I have no doubt you will have much more news for me in your next letter. Do take care. You are in my thoughts, always.
Yours,
Adeline Westley
23 rue Saint Paul
Paris
Diary Entry 34a - Christmas Past
I made my way to Abney Park to bury my father on a crisp, wintry Sunday. The coachman lead the hearse and four plumed horses away from the churchyard as I followed close behind. The bell tolled from the belfry as the undertaker approached me, handing me a note of indebtedness for the preparation of the body. 'Twas Christmas day, and even more than the guilt I felt for my absence these past three years, I felt numb from disappointment, as I was the only person in attendance. I should have know they would not come. I tried to divert my eyes from the emptiness surrounding me as the clergyman continued. The grave diggers had dug a fine trench, befitting my father's tall stature. Two men began to raise the stone as they lowered the lead coffin down beneath the frozen earth. The headstone's epitaph read:
In Memory of
Henry A. Westley
Who departed this life
December 20, 1887
Aged 62 years
~
From whence I came, thereto I go
~
Husband to Mary Elizabeth Murray, Father to Charles & Walter
The snow began to fall and I remained there alone at my father's grave. The inhabitants of Stoke Newington had no doubt begun their festivities. I could hear the faint carols trolling from St. Mary's, and I longed for Elyse to be again at my side. How father had adored her! Her absence left a drafty emptiness, and the little one . . . she evokes a pain I cannot altogether bear. I could hear her laughing as if she were close enough to embrace. I started when I felt two small arms suddenly about me, and there she was. "Adeline!" My eyes strained through the coming tears as I embraced the child. I looked out into the distance--'twas a vision--my Elyse! My heart thundered inside my chest as she waded through the drifts of snow. Had it really been three years? She extended a gloved hand to greet me, "Hello, Charles . . . I thought it only fitting for Addie to visit her grandfather's grave." She looked as angelic as the memory I had kept of her, but the beauty faded from my mind as I inquired, "Is Walter with you?" She replied, "No--he would not come." I gazed back down at the little girl; my heart twisted as the unwelcome questions flooded into my heart and mind. My desire to make amends was censured by reason. I asked, "How long do you intend to persecute me, Elyse? Be truthful! Am I the father of this child?" Her expression was closed and distant. She replied only, "We are leaving." She fetched Adeline, taking her by the hand and as she passed me, prompted, "Adeline, say goodbye to your . . . uncle." I paused to temper my growing enmity, clutching at Elyse's arm and turning her towards me, "You cannot do this to me--and you cannot do it to Walter." Her face softened for the briefest of moments, then she pulled out of my grip and turned away without a word.
I watched as they left the cemetery, then began my own trek back to my father's house. Waiting for me upon the front steps was a large package, wrapped in brown paper. There was no note, but I soon realized who had left it for me. I removed the wrappings immediately, to find a carefully rendered portrait of a small girl--the same small girl who had recently been borne away from me by her cold and beautiful mother. There was no welcome upon my entrance into the house, it seemed more vacant and unfriendly than when I had left it last. I started a fire and settled into my father's chair, propping the painting on a chair opposite my place so that I could gaze on it. Just as I was nodding off to sleep, there was a knock at the door. I roused to answer it, but this unexpected guest let herself in. In the doorway stood a lovely young woman. She introduced herself in a strong French accent, "You must be Charles. I have heard so much about you--please forgive me for not attending the funeral--my mother was a dear friend of Henry's and sent me to tend to the household duties so that you may have sufficient time to mourn. My name is Fifette." I welcomed her inside, and bade her choose any room she would like for her keeping. I imagine it was not difficult to detect my sadness, as she invited me to tell her more about my father. I am afraid I could not keep my troubles from this enjoyable woman, and did confide in her all that burdened me. She, in turn, told me of Paris--and how intriguing it did seem to me! I was seized with a desire to start over. My spirit was indeed uplifted by the fortuitous gift of her kindness.
As this most unholy of Christmases comes to a close, I shall leave on these pages a resolve to begin anew. Mademoiselle Fifette fetched me some brandy, and I felt that no other Christmas gift could have been so fine. Tonight, I raise a glass to tomorrow . . . and to Paris.
(We would like to extend special thanks to David Hunter for originally featuring this Special Edition Letter on his blog.)
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