The Crimson Inkwell

by Kenneth A Baldwin

  He looked so innocent standing there. It was a warm and welcome change to the waters I had been sailing so recently, and he was making an effort at reconciling with my sister. How could I have refused him? Besides, I had missed him last night after my encounter with Bram. “Are those from Mrs. Barkers?” I asked, nodding at the basket.

  “You think I’d bother bringing them if they weren’t?”

  I opened the door and ushered him in, finding a smile warming my face. I needed it. I couldn’t go on another day like before, hating every moment and blaming myself for everything. For the next hour, at least, I could dive into some baked goods and try to make the most of it. Even if I were a monster, Mrs. Barker’s iced buns two mornings in a row was something to be grateful for.

  Byron bustled by me and set the treats on the table.

  “Can I offer you some tea, Byron?”

  “I would be much obliged, my dear.”

  “The flowers are lovely. I’ll have to see about putting them in a vase.” I rummaged through the cupboard, trying to find something large enough to hold the generous spread of flowers. There wasn’t much. I settled on a clay pot next to the envelope Anna had stashed away a couple of days before. I moved it to one side and noted in passing that nothing was in it.

  “I could hardly sleep last night,” he said, sitting down at the table. “Please, let me help you.” He stood up.

  “I can manage just fine,” I said, extracting the old, dusty, clay vase from the cupboards. He ushered the bouquet into it with enthusiasm.

  “What can I get you? There are honeyed scones, iced buns, biscuits.”

  “A scone will be fine. Really, this is too much.”

  “It will never be enough,” he said, with a deep breath. I handed him his tea and sat down across from him. He grabbed my hand and smiled at me. He looked so happy, and I did this. Not with my writing, not with my cleverness or ambition. I did this with just me. That was enough for him.

  “Byron, how can you forgive me after everything? I was so brutish to you.”

  “Couples will have domestics,” he said, squeezing my hand. “I was not so noble myself, but if you can forgive me, I certainly can forgive you. I already have!”

  I scoffed. “Forgive you for what? I overreacted. I’m the one to blame.” I fell in love with another man. I mixed myself up in dark magic. I continued the list in my head, things I wondered if I would ever share with him one day.

  “Rubbish and nonsense. I interfered with Anna’s prospects,” he whispered. “But, let’s talk about more pleasant things.”

  “Yes, let’s.”

  “The date of our marriage,” he said, raising his eyebrows. I took a sip of my tea. I knew he would be eager to get to this. “I’m sorry I missed you last night. But, I’m glad you got some rest. I was so worried about the state you were in. Now, how does next Friday sound?”

  I nearly spat my tea across the room.

  “Next Friday?” I sputtered.

  “We can have all the arrangements made up. There won’t be too many guests, after all. You can invite anyone you like, but I don’t have much left in the way of relatives. A cousin here and a sister there, but they live far off, and I’m not sure they’ll make the trip.”

  “Next Friday.”

  “It’s just that—I mean, why should we wait? We’ve waited so long already.”

  He was right. What difference did it make if it was next Friday, tomorrow, or in a year? The decision had been made. I would become Mrs. Byron Livingston sooner or later. Commitment was the only means of coming to grips with it, and it changed nothing after all.

  I collected myself. “You’re right. Why wait? Next Friday it will be.”

  “Next Friday?” Anna stammered, standing in the doorway, a loose shawl wrapped around her nightgown.

  “Anna, you’re not decent,” I said. She stared at me like a specter.

  “Tall words, dear sister,” she said. Her eyes still bore the mark of sleep, but her fingers were alertly gripping the door frame, as if she had woken from a nightmare. I had known that this would be hard on her, and I had wanted to break it to her slowly. But, maybe it was for the best that it just came out at once. I was tired of hiding my hand and moving from shadow to shadow.

  “Go put something on. We have a guest.”

  “Did I just hear what I think I did?” she asked, ignoring the drooping shawl baring her shoulder. Her chin jutted out proudly, and her nostrils flared. She embodied a terrifying beauty, the way I had always imagined Boudica might appear to her enemies.

  “You did. And, I’d prefer if my sister didn’t scandalize my husband,” I said, screwing up my courage. “Byron and I are getting married a week from Friday.”

  She collapsed against the side of the door frame. Byron stood up.

  “Anna, I’m so terribly sorry about my behavior the other week. I’m at your disposal to make it right. I hope that you will look to me as a cherished brother. Please, I beg of you; let me make this right.”

  She turned her head from him to me. Her eyes questioned me relentlessly.

  What are you doing?

  I’m doing what’s right.

  Is it right to marry a man while you love another? You just told me about another man.

  It wasn’t meant to be.

  You shouted at me about following your heart and sacrificing.

  Anna, it’s closed. It’s done. This is my life and my decision. I’m sorry.

  She regained an icy composure and covered her shoulder again, holding the shawl closed with one hand. She looked the picture of respect. An awesome, practiced shield maiden of respect.

  “I wish you both all the happiness in the world,” she said with a curtsy. She was lying. I could tell because all sisters can. She was perfectly polite and bitterly cold. Who knew how much her affection for me dried up in that doorway? She evaded my eye contact, looking at Byron or the ground. I doubted Byron would be able to pick up on her fury, but I knew her. I had practically raised her. If this cost her a marriage with Jacob, it would be the deepest betrayal I could commit. Maybe, for now, lying behind a pretty mask was enough. With time, perhaps wounds would heal.

  “Where will you hold the wedding?” she asked Byron.

  “The church in Milford Square,” he said, shooting me a warm look. I swallowed hard. That was the church where my parents proclaimed their vows. I nodded to him and closed my eyes. I could still feel Anna breathing deeply from across the room.

  “How thoughtful of you, Byron,” she said. “We’re not overly religious, but I think my dear sister would agree it’s considered a sacred place in our family.”

  “Would you breakfast with us?” he asked.

  “I’m afraid I’m going out. If you’ll excuse me, I have to do myself up before meeting Jacob at the park.”

  “I cannot fault you for such a worthy excuse. Don’t let us hold you back.”

  She curtsied again and retreated to the back room, closing the door behind her.

  “That went well,” said Byron. I sipped my tea.

  “Excuse me for one moment,” I said, following her to the bedroom. I closed the door to the kitchen behind me. She was hurriedly prepping herself to go out.

  “Anna—”

  “It’s done,” she said. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

  “Let me explain.”

  “Are you going to marry him?” She turned around and faced me.

  “Yes, but—”

  “Then I wish you all the happiness in the world,” she replied, coldly and formally as though she were talking to Byron. I wanted her smile. I wanted to feel her companionship, but she turned her back to me, making it clear our conversation was over. Defeated, I made my way back to the kitchen and tried to pretend nothing was wrong.

  I didn’t get a chance to talk with Anna again before she bustled past us and went out the door. Byron had been talking my ear off about wedding and honeymoon plans.

  “And there’s Langley’s Miscellany,”
he said.

  “What about Langley’s?” I asked.

  “What do you say we announce the marriage in our next publication?”

  “What? You mean between Byron Livingston and Travis Blakely?”

  At a certain point, after drained teacups and some dent in the basket of goodies, I prepared myself for the day. Byron had insisted we go for a walk, and I didn’t feel like I could refuse him. When I got back to the kitchen, I found a small stack of envelopes in place of the breadbasket on the table.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “I’ve been meaning to show them to you, but we’ve had so few chances at speaking lately. These are letters from Travis Blakely’s many admirers.”

  I gaped at the pile. Letters from admirers? I was at once flattered and mortified.

  “Whatever do they say?” I asked, impulsively grabbing an envelope and tearing it open.

  “All sorts of things,” he replied. “I hope you don’t mind. I took the liberty of reading a few of them.”

  “‘Dear Mr. Blakely,’” I read aloud with a voracious curiosity. “’Your supple tongue and ability to turn a phrase make every one of my days brighter. I eagerly await your next story with anguish and dream that one day I might meet the man who has such a grip over my emotions. Should you ever be on Lallsbury street, I hope you don’t hesitate to call…’ This woman has some nerve!”

  “There’s another that insists you must speak with her husband about expressing his feelings more openly,” Byron said with a giggle.

  There were many letters, and a vain part of me wanted to sit, read, and respond to all of them. Who wouldn’t like to sit and read compliments and adoration all day?

  “This is a merry surprise. I can’t believe you haven’t brought it up before now! How will I possibly keep up with it all?” I said, eyeing the pile.

  “There’s one letter, in particular, that I thought you might afford special attention.”

  He reached into his vest and produced a crinkled envelope with a sloppily written address sprawled across the front. I hesitated to take it from his extended hand.

  I knew exactly what it was. I had written so many of those myself, years before, as a child.

  Dear Mister Blakly, I began, noting with affection the misspelling, My name is Sarah. I reely liked your story about frogs. It made me laf. I asked my mum if I cood have a pet frog, but she sed no. My favorite stories are about the Steely-Eyed Detective. He reminds me that I can be brave, even if there are monsters. One day, I want to be a rider just like you. My mom says if I lissen to my governess, one day I can rite stories, too. I think the world would like a girl rider because I’m just as smart as Tommy and Jo. Please ride back, if you have time, and please don’t stop riding stories. I like them. Love, Sarah. P.S. Is the Steely-Eyed Detective married?

  I re-read the letter three times. It was like reading a diary entry from when I was a little girl. My eyes glossed up, and I got a painful knot in my throat. Any semblance of anger inside of me was gone. I just felt gratitude, humility, and a heavy weight of responsibility. Was I in any way worthy of this child’s approbation? If she knew what I was…

  Byron put his arm around me.

  “In spite of your best camouflage, my darling, you’re still having quite the effect,” he said.

  I tried my best not to cry.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Fit of Violence

  BYRON AND I spent a few more hours together talking about details for the upcoming wedding. We both agreed that there was no need to make a big fuss out of the ceremony. In fact, I was looking forward to having a private affair at the church where my parents got married. The church at Milford Square was a modest chapel with a pair of stained-glass windows. When I was younger, I imagined that my deceased parents could see through the windows to see me when I was there.

  It was a foolish idea, and I hadn’t attended the church for many years. Still, it was the only place I could imagine getting married. In the off-chance I was right as a younger woman, I wanted my parents to have a view of my husband and me as we embarked into heavenly promises. Or, even if there was no supernatural effect present, I would at least reflect on my own family history as I began a new branch of the tree.

  In the early afternoon, I felt cabin fever and insisted we pursue a change of venue. Neither of us had much of a stomach for lunch after all the baked treats, so we opted to head back to Langley’s to get back to work on whatever would become the next edition.

  As predicted, the snow had melted, and the day was pleasant and sunny, so we opted to walk. On our way there, Byron inquired about my ideas for a next story. I took my time responding. I expected his questioning eventually but still felt unprepared to answer. I satisfied him with some jostle about him working me to death and needing beauty rest as we were getting married next week.

  The very idea of getting back into writing was unappetizing at best, but little Sarah’s letter to me had set off an orchestra of competing emotions. My guilt over using the pen was overwhelming. All personal effects aside, I cheated at the game. How could I have felt good about winning an award for using magic?

  Then again, not only had my stories sold, but they had inspired readers. In particular, they had inspired at least one little girl to dream of making something of herself. Brutus could rail all he wanted on my sensationalist stories, but he would never be able to take away little Sarah’s letter to me.

  Writing came at a sacrifice. My father taught me that.

  If I were to continue writing, maybe it was time to take off the mask, roll up my sleeves, and get into the hard work of it. Fortune had favored me once with a wonderful story, and instead of trusting in my own abilities, I jumped at the chance to seize unearned fame and power, passing off fiction as fact. But, I didn’t need the pen. I wrote the Steely-Eyed Detective on my own. I could write others.

  Of course, I had all but ruined my Steely-Eyed Detective. My poor Edward. I wondered what he was doing at that very moment. That was a road I could not allow myself to travel.

  When we arrived at Langley’s, Byron was immediately taken up into the business of explaining the recent cancellation to the other authors. His desk was stacked with messages, and a few of them had made the trip to the office to have it out then and there.

  I guiltily squeezed his hand as he took his leave.

  “For you, I would endure much more,” he replied and made his way into his office.

  I made myself comfortable at the little table where I used to peck out my heartfelt stories about window coverings. The worn typewriter sat on the desk in front of me. I traced its metal keys with my fingers, feeling their slick finish.

  I could at least try to write something. A letter to Sarah, perhaps. I pulled up the chair and attempted a few mechanical strokes, hearing the satisfying clack of the typeset hitting the ribbon against paper.

  Dear Sarah,

  It was a start at least.

  Thank you for your letter. It is always great to hear that someone reads these stories.

  I had to draw the words out like the roots of stubborn weeds.

  Don’t give up your dream of writing. I agree with you wholeheartedly that the world could use more women writers. In fact, I myself am not exactly what you think. I’m a fraud.

  I stared at the last line. I had meant to write, “It wasn’t easy for me to begin writing.” Instead, the ink on the paper shouted accusations at me. Flashes of fireballs and feverish episodes shot through my head. I winced, and the demon inside of me flared up. How dare I talk about the difficulty of writing. I was a fraud. I was. I was.

  I ripped the paper from the typewriter and ripped it up. It was too soon. Perhaps it would always be too soon.

  The door swung open, and a familiar face hurried over to where I sat.

  “I’ll be honest. I did not expect to find you here.” Rebecca put both hands on the desk and leaned over the typewriter. “Doug’s. Now.”

  I was so shocked that I could co
me up with no reason to refuse.

  “Rebecca, what a surprise, but I’m just not hungry—”

  “We’re not going for the food.”

  She nearly yanked me out the door, hardly giving me a chance to let Byron know that I had to go assist my friend. He nodded to me with a smile. Judging by the exaggerated gesticulations of our political columnist, it looked like he would be busy for quite some time.

  We arrived at Doug’s after a frantic walk void of small talk and full of silence. Rebecca had a dangerous look about her. I knew she could handle herself, and I knew she was no fool when it came to the ways of the world. I was reminded of the first time I asked her to deliver my stories for me. She saw straight through me and out the door.

  We walked into the front hall of Doug’s Fish and Chips, and the congenial owner sensed immediately that Rebecca was not here for food. In fact, I suspected that Rebecca had spoken with him prior to my kidnapping.

  “The usual place,” he said, uncharacteristically professional. Rebecca gave a curt nod before Doug took us past our usual table and into a corner booth with heavy curtains. The booth was dark, lit only with some used tallow candles on the wall. Doug didn’t ask if we wanted anything. He just pulled the curtain closed and left us.

  Rebecca took off her hat and leveled her eyes across the table at me, shadows dancing darkly on her face.

  “We have some things to talk about,” she said. She slid a copy of Langley’s Miscellany across the table. In bold letters sprawled across the front, I read “Banking Scandal Leads to Suicide.” I felt cold blood surge through every vein in my body. It was real. It had printed after all.

  My fingers twitched.

  “Where did you get this? Byron swore to me he recalled them.” My voice trembled, and panic swam into my brain, making my head feel heavy. I was quickly losing any sense of gravity.

  “He did,” she said coolly.

  “And yet you have this paper here.”

  “Our conversation yesterday perturbed me a great a deal, the one where you went on about magic and fog men. Then, I watched you and Edward go into Cooper’s office. Then I watched Cooper enter. Edward yelled loudly; a chair hit the floor. He emerged in a fury, and I couldn’t even get you to respond to me. You just left, looking like a corpse walking out of a grave. I couldn’t let you go like that, but you waved me off. So, I did what any friend should have done in that situation. I followed you.”