Necessary Evil

by Killarney Traynor

  Her shiver was so slight that Darlene and Aunt Susanna didn’t notice. But I did. If I needed anything more to solidify my resolution to work with Randall, this would have been the last straw. It was one thing to terrify and annoy me – but scaring Lindsay was something else altogether.

  “I guess that’s it, then,” I said.

  Suddenly, there was nothing I wanted more than to see Randall and get started. I was on my feet so quickly that the other women were startled, and I was half way to the door when Aunt Susanna stuttered, “But what about the plan, Maddie? Is it a go?”

  I stopped and looked back at them.

  “You’re all hired,” I said, then grinned. “Looks like we’re about to have a very busy couple of weeks, ladies.”

  As I left, I heard Lindsay say, “It is soo good to be back to work.”

  I had to agree.

  Chapter 21:

  Randall still hadn’t returned to his study. I put the letter into the safe, taking care to shut it before I left. In the brutal light of day, the treasure seemed as unlikely as ever, but that letter was probably the only way we’d find out.

  I went out into the backyard and found Randall striding out of the woods, carrying his walking stick with Trusty trotting at his side. The professor’s face was pinched up in an expression that I now recognized as puzzlement. Judging by the sharp way he swung the stick, I figured he was working through a particularly tough problem. He brightened a little when he saw me and picked up his stride, no doubt eager to find out about the letter. But Mrs. Fontaine reached him before I did.

  I didn’t know she was even on the property before she appeared, zipping out of the barn with one arm waving frantically and the other clutching something to her chest. I’d never seen the woman move so fast, nor look so eager. She was so intense that the professor, on seeing her, took an instinctive step backwards before righting himself. Not that he had any chance of an escape. Mrs. Fontaine was on him and plucking at his sleeve long before I could get there.

  Mystified, I hurried and came into range in time to hear her say, “…So if you could just autograph these for my mother, she will be so thrilled. You are, without a doubt, her favorite author. When my daughter told me you were staying here, I collected all the books I could find and here, I’ve brought a pen…”

  She pulled one of out her pocket, so delighted to hand it to her bewildered prey that she even condescended to give me a smile as I jogged up to them.

  “Hello, Maddie,” she said, and I was taken aback by her friendliness. “This is so exciting, isn’t it? The farm my daughter takes lessons at is going to be in a book! Alice was so excited – not that she’ll be able to read these for quite some time yet, but I did promise her that I would save a copy for her when she’s old enough.”

  She noticed that Randall was standing, making no motion to use the pen, so she indicated the title page encouragingly. “Sign it to Alberta,” she said.

  The jig is up! I thought, panicking. She’s figured out who he is!

  Professor Randall looked at her, then plaintively at me, the “help me” so visible in his face that it was almost an audible cry. It seemed to confirm my suspicion, and I dropped my head into my hands. Just when we were getting started, this had to happen. Now the secret would get out and we’d be inundated.

  Mrs. Fontaine continued to gush at Randall, all admiration and awe, and I thought, Never would have pegged her as a history buff. Then Randall said, in a tone as confused as my jumbled thoughts, “But why would you want me to sign these?”

  He said it with such obvious distaste that I looked up. He was holding one of the books high so I could see it. I nearly choked. It was a large print hardcover with a gaudy cover, featuring a man and a woman grappling against a Moorish background, under the title, My Lord Chieftain. And in elaborate script under the tumbling, passionate pair was the name of the author: Gregorianne Vincent.

  I clapped a hand over my mouth to keep from laughing.

  “I was curious about you, so I looked your name up in the local library,” Mrs. Fontaine explained. “When I couldn’t find anything, I asked the librarian for help and she told me that it’s common for romance writers to use an assumed name and even an assumed gender. She guessed right away that you and Gregorianne Vincent were one and the same because she’s a fan, too, only her favorite was One Night in Bangladesh.”

  She paused when she realized that Randall was still staring at her, then said defensively, “Well, I know this looks like a library book, but my mother is on Social Security and she bought it in a sale, so it’s perfectly all right for you to sign it.”

  I heard someone, probably Alice, calling my name, but I ignored her to watch the interplay of emotion and thought on Randall’s face as he sorted through the information. He took another quick look at the cover. He must have spotted the author’s name for the first time, because he practically reeled.

  Mrs. Fontaine went on anxiously, “You aren’t upset, are you? I hope it’s not an imposition. I know you’re here to write, but when I learned that my mother’s favorite author, Gregorianne Vincent, was here, I just couldn’t resist…”

  He cut her off, pointing to the cover, “You think I wrote this?” he sputtered, then looked around her at me. “This?” he asked again.

  I shrugged, and Mrs. Fontaine turned defensive.

  “You needn’t be touchy, Mr. Vincent,” she said, then surprised me when she added, “Maddie didn’t tell us anything more than you were a writer. She told us you were to be left alone to study. She didn’t give us your penname or anything, but when she said that you wrote romances, it was easy to put two and two…”

  The look on his face was absolutely priceless. It was all I could do to keep from laughing aloud.

  For a moment, Randall couldn’t do anything more than stare. When he did regain his voice, it was a roar.

  “Romances! My dear Madeleine…”

  “I’ve got to go,” I interjected, jabbing behind me. “Duty calls.”

  I sped off, leaving them to work things out. I heard Mrs. Fontaine say, just before I went out of earshot, “Honestly, I’ve heard of temperamental artists, but you are carrying this just a little too far, don’t you think, Mr. Vincent?”

  Alice was at the barn, trying to find her gear for a ride she had planned over the weekend with her friend. I helped her find it, chatting about the camp; then, Mrs. Fontaine came striding back in. It only occurred to me then that my joke on the professor might very well cost me a customer, if Mrs. Fontaine was sufficiently insulted. Anxiety swept over me, but to my surprise, she seemed calm, even happy.

  “Everything all right?” I asked warily.

  She was typing in her cell phone as she nodded. “Oh, yes. We got everything straightened out. I don’t envy you, though, sharing a house with a touchy fellow like that. Still, it must be fascinating to live with an artist. He’s so intelligent, isn’t he? For a romance writer, I mean.”

  “Oh,” I said, trying to make sense of this. “Absolutely. He signed your book?”

  She beamed then, her face transforming. “Every one. Mom will be so pleased! But don’t worry. I won’t give them to her until August, as requested. We have to go. Have you got everything, Alice?”

  They left, happy enough, and I went into the house. Jacob had gone home, but left the bike behind, leaning against the house and gleaming in the dying sunlight. I thought it must need more work, but as I ran a hand over its sturdy frame, I couldn’t see anything wrong with it.

  Teenagers, I thought, and went inside.

  Randall was in the kitchen, pouring himself and Trusty a drink of water. There was no one else in the room, so I felt comfortable giving him a hard time.

  “So, Gregorianne,” I said, leaning against the counter with my arms folded. “You signed your book for Mrs. Fontaine?”

  He was lowering a bowl of water to the floor for Trusty and shook his head in irritation. “Gregorianne! What a ridiculous name! Yes, I signed the bloody books.
What else could I do without giving the game away?”

  “But I thought you told me that the truth was worth getting into trouble for,” I said. He gave me a sidelong glance that spoke volumes, but I was enjoying myself too much to stop there. “In fact, I seem to recall that you abhor forgeries of any kind.”

  I was a little surprised at myself, to tell the truth. It seemed only an hour ago that I couldn’t bear even the mention of the name Beaumont, let alone verbalizing the word “forgery”. Now here I was joking about it.

  But even as I marveled at this, Gregory addressed me with another one of those looks of his, freezing my smug smile in place.

  “I do, and I did, and I still think so,” he said. “But I gave my word that I wouldn’t tell anyone my true purpose here. I promised you that I wouldn’t do so, and then you went and created an unbelievable story that I am a romance writer!” He ran his hand through his hair and exclaimed, “Romance! My dear Madeleine, of all the genres, why did you have to pick that one?”

  I shrugged, but I won’t deny that I was feeling a little ashamed of myself. Not that I was about to let him know that.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I guess I thought Gregory Vincent needed a more solid background story, and romances seemed the most likely genre to have pennames. No one would be surprised that there wasn’t a Gregory Vincent. How was I to know that there was a Gregorianne?”

  He grunted. “I guess you couldn’t, unless you read the things yourself. But honestly, it was awful! I had to pretend that I wrote them, and that I’m writing another. She asked if you were going to be in it.”

  “Really? What did you say?”

  “I said, of course you are. She got a giggle out of that.”

  I grimaced. “Thanks a lot.”

  “Turnabout’s fair play. Anyway, she insisted that I sign the stupid things, so what else could I do? I signed them, and told her that she couldn’t give them to her mother until the end of the summer. I made up a story about being mobbed by my fans and she bought it, and promised not to say anything, so I minimized the damage somewhat.” He sighed, martyr-like. “Now I’ve got to get her mother some books signed by the real Gregorianne Vincent, if she even exists. I signed them G. Vincent, so it wasn’t a complete lie, only I forgot and started writing ‘Randall’ in one. I had to finish it with ‘Regards’. Imagine: G. Vincent, Regards, like I was a bloody robot or something!”

  He sounded so put out, so suddenly human, that I burst into laughter.

  Randall looked at me in sharp rebuke. Unfortunately, that only made me laugh more, and I dropped my head into my hands, letting my shoulders shake with the force of it.

  “Gregorianne!” I laughed. “If you could have seen your face – oh my gosh, it was priceless!”

  “Gregorianne,” he repeated wearily. When I looked up, he was leaning on the counter beside me. While he still looked like he’d swallowed something disgusting, there was a distinct softening in his eyes, and I knew that the humor of the situation was beginning to get to him. “That’s an awful name. A truly awful name.”

  I shook my head, wiping my eyes. “Oh, it’s not so bad. It’s just a girly version of yours. If you ever have a daughter, you can use it.”

  “A daughter!” His eyebrows rose in surprise.

  “Well, you seem like the type of man who’d name his first born after himself.”

  To my surprise, he smirked at that and looked at his feet. “Yeah, probably. But…” he lifted a finger in defense. “It is a family name, so…”

  “Gregorianne?”

  He snorted. “No. ‘Gregory’. I come from a long line of Gregory Randalls.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Now you do,” he said. “For your information, my family has a long and distinguished history in this country and in the one before it.” He stopped, shook his head, and grinned at his feet. “So I’m undercover as Gregorianne Vincent, the bodice-ripping romance writer.”

  “Looks that way.”

  “I suppose it could be worse. You could have told everyone I was writing a cookbook, or one of those supernatural teenage dramas.” He shuddered and tightened his arms. “That would have been truly intolerable.”

  “I’ll remember that for next time,” I said, and he grinned wryly as our eyes met.

  I was thinking, He’s not too bad, once he’s put on the spot.

  What he was thinking, I don’t know, but his expression changed subtly, and I realized I was being studied. It was as though he was seeing me for the first time. But where I was finding common ground, he seemed to be digging deeper, looking into what might be called my soul.

  “Watch yourself, Warwick,” Randall said softly, his smile still mischievous, but with an edge. “Leave the backstory to me, or I’m liable to start spreading some rumors about you and a certain shirt-tearing novelist.”

  I did a double-take as a sudden image caused my cheeks to burn. I tore my eyes away, snorting in feeble derision, saying the first cutting thing that came to mind: “They’d never buy it. The first rule of deceit is have a believable story.”

  Randall winced, but before he could come up with a comeback, I said, “I’ve brought the letter, by the way. It’s in the safe in the office.”

  “It’s here?” he asked, leaping from the counter like his hands were scorched by the contact. “Alexander’s letter?”

  “As promised,” I answered and he bolted for the doorway, shouting, “Why didn’t you say so before?”

  Trusty barked and raced after him, and I was a step or two behind her. We were quick, but Randall was already at the safe, spinning the dial frantically and undoing the combination in his haste.

  “Let me,” I said, as I crouched beside him to work the door.

  I pulled open the door at last and gestured to the safe and he dove into it, pulling out the precious plastic-wrapped item with as much reverence as though he were handling the Shroud of Turin.

  “Excellent!”

  He jumped out and rushed out of the room. Trusty and I followed.

  He went back to the counter, pushed aside the various cups, pieces of mail, and kitchen instruments left on its surface, and laid the letter on it. Then he deftly pulled a pair of plastic gloves out from his back pocket and pulled them on, his eyes never leaving the page, his lips moving in silent recitation of the well-known words.

  Trusty and I stopped on the other side of the counter, and I watched him as he carefully extracted the letter from its covering. Behind me, I heard the laughing chatter from the living room.

  “Don’t you think that we ought to do this in the office?” I asked.

  He shook his head, completely absorbed in his work. “Better light in here,” he said. “Oh, you have the envelope, too – fantastic! I had no idea this still existed!”

  There was a gleam in his eye that was unfamiliar to me. He pulled the letter out and laid it carefully on top of its covering, then bent down to read it, adjusting his oversized glasses as he did so.

  I leaned over and read what I had, over time, nearly memorized:

  June 1, 1862

  Dearest Mother,

  Your letter of the 12th arrived yesterday

  And I was glad to receive it.

  Any word from home is always welcome. I

  Pray that you and Avery are well. I al-

  So wish to thank you for your kind words of

  Blessing – they are dew-drops to my soul. Marched

  Long today and I am exhausted by hours

  Of training and miserable Poe-like terrain. We shall meet

  Johnny Rebel any day and I am itching for the introduction.

  To glory we go, hungry and tired, but with

  New vigor and eagerness. It may seem strange but I have no

  Fear, just regret that I leave so little behind for my dearest

  Mother – just the earthy good contained in my home soil.

  Do pray for me, as I always do for you, knowing our God is

  Just and lo
ving and all is in His hands.

  Yours, always,

  Alexander.

  PS: When I fear, I think on the August words in my beloved psalmery, especially no. 29. Read on this and think of me. – AC

  It was written on what we were told was cheap, common paper at the time, and there were stains on the page from both dirt and moisture, maybe sweat or rain, or possibly - as the more poetic observers suggested - tears. There was a ragged tear in one section, where his pen dug a little too deeply, and several deep wrinkles that marred the beauty of the unexpectedly clear and well-formed cursive.

  Seeing it gave me a feeling similar to what Mary’s journal provoked: that this was a bridge to a time before, to people that were connected to me but never seen, whose lives - though ended - were as present now as they were then. Looking at the letter, I got the sensation that the dead hadn’t gone as far away as one might think.

  My morbid thoughts made me shiver.

  Randall stirred, nodding vigorously.

  “Yes!” he shouted.

  “See something?” I asked.

  He looked at me, his expression one of triumph. It took me aback – I’d never seen him look so happy, nor so young. He looked like a different man entirely: a man so alive, so full of life that his vibrancy was barely contained. I found myself remembering his crack about the shirt-tearing novelist and blushed like a schoolgirl.

  Not that Randall appeared to notice.

  “It is here, Madeleine,” he said, his tone hushed with reverence. “It’s here, I know it.”

  “What’s here?” I asked.

  “Give me another minute.”

  He pulled out a small, square magnifying glass and went back to his examinations, pouring over the envelope with almost as much care as he did the letter. This puzzled me, as there was nothing more on the envelope than the address and the usual markings of travel. With nothing else to do, I studied it, too, though I couldn’t see anything more on it than had been on the copied version.