The Crimson Inkwell

by Kenneth A Baldwin

  “And how would your fiancé feel about that?”

  Bram might as well have a grabbed a bucket of the cold river water and soaked me with it. Mention of Byron had an immediate chilling effect on my mood, bringing back to my mind all the troubles of reality, troubles the pen could not help me with.

  This afternoon was one of the best I’d spent in a very long time, not as the victorious high that comes after hard work and accomplishment, but in a casual, comfortable sort of way. I felt so at home with Bram. The very mention of Byron, and his attached entanglement with my sister, felt like work in a world to which I wasn’t eager to return. I wanted my time here with Bram to continue.

  “Can you keep a secret?” I asked him. He barked out a laugh.

  “You’re asking the loner carnival worker that has a trunk full of magic items if he can keep a secret?”

  “Ah ha!” I cried victoriously. “I thought that trunk might have some more oddities in it. How very trusting of you, especially to a fanciful, successful writer.”

  “You’re crazy now, like me. No one will believe something like that, even if you were to win the Golden Inkwell.”

  “I don’t want to marry my fiancé,” I said after a deep breath. He looked at me with increased interest, wrinkles around his eyes forming as his brain decoded what I told him here, alone, under a linden tree next to a river. I think I was about as surprised as he was. I had never said it out loud before, and I wasn’t sure why I said it now. Perhaps I was just angry with him about his spectacle of a dinner. But, maybe it went deeper than that. Maybe Byron had always represented safety for my sister and me.

  I had spent years building calluses over the scars I had from previous courtships. There had been several, but something about me had driven them away.

  By the time I was twenty-four, I was convinced that was it for me, that I was destined to be a widow without a deceased husband. This conclusion placed immense stress on my mind to get Anna successfully, and happily, married off. I became her mother. When Byron expressed his interest, I was cautious. I never experienced the obnoxious obsession Anna felt for Jacob. I wasn’t sure I’d felt any infatuation at all, just the comfort of a smart match. Byron was a net, breaking my imminent fall to years of hard work, appreciated by no one, and loved by no one but a sister.

  “Does he treat you poorly?” Bram asked.

  “Nothing like that,” I replied. “I mean, he’s not perfect by any means, and he sure misstepped recently, but I believe he adores me.”

  “Then I don’t understand,” he continued. “What more could you look for in a spouse than earnest devotion and adoration?”

  I could not answer his question directly, not with my true feelings. He would think I was a shallow woman, marrying Byron only for his money. I snickered. Byron wasn’t rich. If I was shallow, I was certainly stupid.

  Still, hadn’t my blood set to boiling when I saw Byron’s correspondence with another woman? He had said that jealousy was a sure sign of affection. I had never felt such a surge of jealousy in my life. Maybe he was right. I could have just been taking our relationship for granted. Older women had always told me that love was a learned skill.

  On the other hand, I looked at Bram. How could I tell him that I’d never had with my betrothed a moment like the one we were experiencing now.

  “If you try to kiss me, I’ll run away,” he said. My eyes went wide.

  “Kiss you? What on earth are you talking about?”

  “I don’t know! You have this look on your face like you’re drinking summer wine in autumn. I just thought I would put my foot down here and now.” I blushed, searching for words.

  “You’ve misunderstood me,” I stammered. “I’m not disinterested in my fiancé because of you.”

  “I never said you were,” he protested.

  “Well, good, then. We understand each other.”

  “You’re disinterested in your fiancé because of the Steely-Eyed Detective,” he said slyly, eyes fixed on the river, the words sliding out of the side of his mouth. Bram had a gift for rendering me speechless. He said what he thought without regard of the consequence. I was also becoming increasingly aware of his intelligence. I couldn’t honestly deny his accusation.

  It wasn’t Edward specifically, but the very fact that the first time I spoke with him, I couldn’t seem to escape his gray eyes or concentrate on my conversation with Sergeant Cooper. That attraction wedged doubt into my relationship with Byron. When I was with either Bram or Edward, Byron was far from my mind, until I used him as a type of backstop when I felt socially uncomfortable. Byron was older than me, and so often I looked at him as I might have my father. Was that the basis for a good lifelong match? Or would I be plagued by encountering men like Bram and Edward the rest of my days? I had felt jealousy, yes, but Byron would never make me feel a sense of passion and adventure.

  Pursuing this line of thinking dragged me down quickly into my current situation. I was betrothed to Byron. That arrangement was still intact. If I did break it off, I didn’t know how confident I was that he would continue to run my stories. Could I, in good faith, ask him to?

  Most importantly, if this was my greatest concern, did I have a duty to end the engagement anyway?

  “Should we go back and write the story or not?” I said as the afternoon soured thinking about the distance between a life that could be and my own circumstances. Bram’s magic pen could still act as a doorway to a new, bright future full of wonder and opportunity.

  “What, the frogs?” He groaned.

  “The frogs have my vote. I’ll let you choose next time.” I stood, getting up off the grass. “Within reason, that is.”

  I helped him up, and he patted himself off.

  “Then I’d be an accomplice to whatever madness you come up with,” he complained.

  “You’re the one with the magic pen! I’m just an idea girl.”

  He laughed, whistled for his dog to follow, and started back toward the uneven grouping of canopies. What must his life have been like? The fair had been in our town for only a couple of weeks. Before that?

  “Why are you doing this for me?” I asked. He stopped but didn’t turn around. He seemed to be looking at the fairgrounds. I saw a weight settle over his shoulders. A surge of empathy connected us. I, with my mess to return to, he with his.

  “I must be bored,” he called back to me. “Are you coming, Mr. Blakely?”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Dueling

  I WROTE UP the story in his tent. I didn’t want to go write it at the print shop with Byron there. Besides, I found myself deeply enjoying Bram’s company. As I worked away on a peculiar typewriter he had collected from whom he described as a mad tinker (the letters weren’t in the spaces I was familiar with), he told me stories, tried to convince me to eat fruits and cakes, made me tea, and even demonstrated some of the sleight of hand he used in his old act.

  “I had to dress up the real magic with the fake stuff,” he said, vanishing an egg under a handkerchief. “It was the only way I could get people to pay attention.” The dog, who I learned was named Cyrus, yawned and curled up for a nap. Apparently, he had seen the trick before.

  The story took me three times as long as it usually would, and by the time I was done, he had learned an awful lot about me, including the working relationship I had with Byron and that I had a dear sister. With his incessant questions, it was a marvel he didn’t know the name of my perfume.

  “I thought you might have a sister.”

  “How on earth could you guess that?”

  “There’s a way about you. Women with sisters sometimes take in information or hear something, and they store it away to tell their sister later. There’s a distinct ‘wait ‘til sister hears of this’ expression.”

  He was a keen observer like that. He also volunteered to run my story to the print shop, so I didn’t have to show my face there, an offer I turned down, knowing what a scene it might cause if Byron started receiving my
stories from a handsome man closer to my age than he was.

  He brought up a troubling point, though. I didn’t feel prepared to face my betrothed yet, and I couldn’t send my stories with my sister either. They might kill each other, or else she might try some public form of humiliation against him. I couldn’t trust Mrs. Crow—she would open and read anything I gave to her, and then she would learn my secret pen name. Mrs. Barker was the same, and besides she was busy running a bakery. Iced buns wait for no one.

  Going through my options made me depressed. I didn’t have many friends, a fact I tried to ignore by keeping myself busy. This was my lot for clinging to my independence so ardently.

  With my story done, I bid Bram a farewell, agreeing that we would write again later during the week. In the meantime, we’d both brainstorm ideas on our own. I advised him not to keep his brainstorm lighthearted. I didn’t want to ruin lives. He bowed politely, and I offered him my hand, which he shook curtly.

  I cleared my throat.

  “Yes?” he asked. I held out my hand longer, emulating a queenly grace.

  “A curt handshake?” I raised an eyebrow.

  “What else are you expecting?” he asked.

  “I think we’re both aware of the tradition. It’s customary to grace a lady’s hand with a kiss.”

  “A lady’s hand?” He crouched down and lifted Cyrus to my hand. The pointer smothered it with a slobbery tongue. “There you are, my lady.”

  I wiped my hand on his sleeve, despite his protests, and made my way from the tent back toward the west side.

  When I got home, I found Anna frozen in the middle of some needlework, a vacant stare out the window. I knew that any attempts to console her would be fruitless. Evidently, Jacob had not yet contacted her, which I took to be a bad sign.

  “I’m worthless to him!” she lamented. I took the needlework from her and set it on the table. I guiltily rubbed her back, hiding my cheerfulness. It seemed wrong that my lot was looking up as Anna’s was in such a state, but I couldn’t help my levity. I had a delicious secret. A fantastical secret! Even if things between Anna and Jacob didn’t work out, I’d found a gold mine.

  We dined solemnly on a stew that Mrs. Crow was kind enough to share with us. We contributed some bread rolls and willing ears to hear the latest gossip about town, news that we couldn’t focus on for more than a moment. It was in one ear and out the other. We were both too distracted, Anna concerned with Jacob and I ruminating over all my new possibilities. I found myself smiling at potatoes and holding back giggles when spreading butter over bread as I remembered some of Bram’s absurd retellings of the carnival lifestyle, some of the failed illusions he tried to demonstrate to me, or the indignant attitude Cyrus had toward him.

  Anna retired early, and I stayed up puzzling over how I was going to deliver my stories to my employer.

  The next morning, I left Anna still asleep and set out to the police station with an idea in mind. It was an unusually sunny day, and I thought I heard birds chirping in the trees as if it were springtime. The path to the police station felt more familiar now, and along the way, I passed by the usual herd of print stands, stealing glances at the headlines. They all seemed so trivial, almost amateur, now. Just a couple of weeks ago, I had coveted positions at these publications. They were untouchable summits, almost sacred. Now, it just felt like they were about to be second fiddle. The feeling made my head swim.

  If, of course, Bram was right, and the pen really worked as he said. But, I’d seen it work once already, and for some reason, I found myself trusting him. He felt real, genuine.

  I skipped up the steps of the station and bound through the door, feeling comfortable in the space; things felt familiar. The old windows, the musty smell, and the usual red-headed lamppost leaning back in his chair, reading a copy of the Dawnhurst Happenings. He noticed me over his paper and, at once, settled into his practiced, professional demeanor. He looked up at me sympathetically.

  “Here to report a missin-”

  “Do you not recognize me?” I interrupted, gesturing to my face. “You have a compulsion about missing people, do you realize?”

  “Sure, I recognize you, miss, with a pretty face like yours. I’m just always nervous that this time will be the time you’re here to report a missing per—”

  “I’ll show myself down the hall,” I said, dismissing him. He was hopeless. I made my way toward Sergeant Cooper’s office and was happy to see his door closed. It would make my present business simpler without his typical bah humbug mentality toward journalists. I turned and saw Ms. Turner, busy as usual on a typewriter, noting warmly the half-hidden copy of Langley’s Miscellany under a stack of her work papers.

  “Ms. Turner,” I said, breaking her concentration. She looked up at me, somehow bright and beautiful despite the messy, frazzled do on her head held together by a pen.

  “Mrs. Steely Detective,” she chided. “Back again for another story? I’m not sure we can keep up with the demand.”

  “Actually, no I was just—”

  “Who am I kidding? Of course, we can. You’ll never believe what Lieutenant Thomas did this time.” I couldn’t deny my curiosity when it came to Edward Thomas.

  “What?”

  “A duel. He had a duel with sabers.”

  “Is he alright?” My heart leapt into my throat. A duel? The idiot man! I immediately saw him in my mind, dead on a lawn or bleeding in a hospital bed. What would I do if Edward was hurt? It was astonishing how quickly my elated mood vacated my breast. What was he thinking? What could possibly persuade him to act so foolishly?

  My mind darted to the pen, to Mr. Bradford’s odd villainous behavior, and couldn’t help but wonder what other magic trinkets were out there in the world. Was some otherworldly force at work on Edward? I felt a deep fear spring up from within me, and with it, helplessness, anger.

  “Your poor glove will never be the same if you keep wringing it like that,” Ms. Turner went on, noting the death grip I had on my pair of walking gloves. Her smug expression made me feel childish. If she were so calm, Edward couldn’t be that hurt. Then again, Ms. Turner had a strong mind, and maybe she had become desensitized to the trauma of police work. I wrestled with my sudden emotions, trying to understand what to make of them. I was not usually this unhinged.

  “He’s doing fine,” she continued. “Got a nasty slash across his right shoulder, but apart from that, he’s in good spirits.” Sweet relief flooded my bosom. Thank heavens. I sat down in what was now my usual chair, tasting something sour in my mouth.

  “What on earth did he get himself into a duel for?” I asked, slapping my gloves down on the table, not caring to hide my irritation.

  “That’s just it,” she said. “He had been sniffing out a feud between a devil of a man who had taken in some highborn lad on a gambling debt. From what I gather, the lad couldn’t pay, and the man demanded the ‘honorable exchange.’ Lieutenant Thomas arrived just in time to see the poor boy of seventeen hefting the weight of a sword for likely the first time in his life, facing off against the brute. He called for a stop to it, but the man insisted he would be satisfied. That’s when Thomas grabbed the blade from the lad, proclaimed the boy was under his protection, and the man would have to be satisfied by a fight with a police officer.”

  “And they fought? Did Edward kill him?” I gulped. I could imagine Edward valiantly defending the boy to his opponent’s bitter end if it was necessary. The man never shirked from what he saw as his duty, I knew. His honor both inspired and terrified me.

  “Killed him? Absolutely not! They fought for nearly an hour, at which point the man was so exhausted he had a breathing attack. More uniforms had arrived by then. Lieutenant Thomas kicked the man’s sword to his partners, bandaged his shoulder, and escorted the boy home without so much as a sweat. At least, that’s the way the other lads on the force are telling it. How’s that for a story?”

  It was warm in the room; I started fanning myself with a loose police
report. “Where is he now?”

  “Back out on duty.” He was a formidable man, more of a man than most that I knew—perhaps all I knew. I saw in him the qualities of a pack leader, high breasted and fearless. I couldn’t help but compare him to Bram. The two were strikingly different. Edward was noble and heroic. Bram was, well, unique.

  “I will certainly have to write it up after getting his account of what happened,” I said, shaking off my imagination. I sat down and smoothed out my skirts, allowing my heart rate to slow.

  “Ms. Winthrop, it appears your non-romantic feelings toward the Lieutenant have you in a fix.” Ms. Turner grinned deviously. I tried my very best not to blush.

  “If you’re done playing at a teenage girl, I actually came here to talk to you.”

  “Me? Whatever for?”

  “I was wondering if I might interest you in a side job for about an hour or two a week.”

  “I see. Well, I have a job,” she said with cold resolution.

  “Oh, I know that. In fact, I’ve admired you these times we’ve spoken. You represent much of what I aspire to be.”

  “Plus, I am quite busy. My days occupied here, my evenings jam packed, spent occupied by Misters Dickens, Hardy, Keats. I could go on, but why bore you?”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize,” I said.

  “Well, it’s true. I’m simply quite busy with lots of things. Many different kinds of things, too. You wouldn’t believe them if I told you. Though, I appreciate the compliment, and out of curiosity, what is it exactly that you had in mind?”

  “What I really need is a favor, and I’m willing to pay you for it if necessary.”

  “What kind of favor?” She studied me with an inquisitive, raised eyebrow.

  “I’m just getting very busy tracking down some of the stories I’ve been working on, and I need someone to deliver my work to my publisher, as well as collect any paycheck he may have for me.”