Secret Letters

by Leah Scheier

  I realized suddenly that I had not misunderstood his meaning; I knew finally what he wanted from me, what he had been hoping for when he had asked me to return. And I could not think of anything to say to him. A hundred voices screamed their protest in my ears, a hundred judgments against my reputation, a hundred reasons to refuse. It was unheard of, impossible, and shameful. My family would reject me if they ever learned of it; my cousin would never even think of giving her consent.

  The minutes pulsed by slowly and still he watched me, saying nothing, his eyes a timid question fixed on mine. Are you ready? they seemed to say. Will you accept the challenge? Inside me a tempest raged, pounding me with doubts. How could I leave the city without my guardian’s approval? How would I even claim this post? What if I failed completely, and the case was lost because of me? Who did he think I was—?

  But then suddenly I knew my answer: it had been inside me all the time. There was no other choice; I had been praying for a chance like this. The words came very calmly when I answered him, the words which I had waited years to say.

  “I can go, sir. Let me take the case.”

  The tension melted in a moment, his triumphant smile mirroring my own. “I thought I knew my Dora Joyce,” he murmured.

  I put my chin up and crossed my arms, suddenly annoyed by his audacity. “I am not your Dora Joyce, sir. You did not enter into my consideration. My cousin needs my help, and that is why I have agreed. I am doing this for her.”

  “Are you sure about that, Miss Joyce? So you haven’t been dreaming about this moment all your life? Oh, never mind, don’t answer. We have more important business to discuss, and there are still a few details to consider before we begin. The Hartfield housekeeper is already expecting an application from my ‘friend’s sister.’ I will draft the letter for you and provide you with the references and the uniform which you will need. While you are at the estate, I will, of course, be as nearby as possible; but we cannot be seen talking to each other without exciting gossip. Before you arrive I will station a young friend of mine named Perkins near the house, and we will communicate through him.”

  “But I cannot simply vanish! What shall I tell my cousin?”

  “You know her best, Miss Joyce. I will leave that bit to you.”

  I considered the problem for a moment and nodded slowly. “Very well, then. I’ll want a chaperone.”

  He threw his head back and barked a laugh. “You’re not serious? A scullion with a chaperone?”

  “I’ll need an older woman to escort me from Adelaide’s home and to the train, that’s all. This ‘chaperone’ will be my alibi for the next few days.”

  He pursed his lips and frowned. “And what exactly do you plan on telling poor, unsuspecting Lady Forrester?”

  I shrugged and gave him a playful smile. “I will tell her that the criminal Underworld is suddenly very interested in my movements.”

  “Ah. Someone has been following you, perhaps? You must go into hiding because you’re—”

  “—in mortal danger, yes. You will confirm these terrible suspicions, naturally.”

  “Naturally.”

  “I presume Mr. Porter will not be hearing of this development?”

  “No, Miss Joyce, not unless you embarrass all of us by your performance. At present he is very busy trying to locate Lady Rose and her supposed lover. He gave me leave to work out my theories on my own. I am lucky that he never asks about my methods; he cares only about results. In any case, you will be at Hartfield for a mere day or two. Scrub a few grates, learn the servant gossip, and then disappear into obscurity. I assume that you can act a little? The accent, for instance, a maidservant’s manners—these are all familiar to you?”

  I rose briskly to my feet. “You forget that I have been surrounded by servants all my life. I would never have volunteered if I could not play the part, sir. But now I must be going, for if Adelaide finds me here our adventure ends before it can begin.”

  He chuckled and strode over to the door. “Our adventure, Miss Joyce? You do not mean that you are including me in your investigation? I am truly honored.”

  I shrugged and picked my purse up off the ground. “Laugh if you like, I cannot care; I know that you’ll never understand. This is just a job for you, something to do to earn your bread. It obviously means nothing to you.”

  He smiled deliberately, pushing up his lips into a tense, fine line, while the humor drained slowly from his face. A light of protest stirred briefly in his eyes; I saw the flash of wounded honor flare and die. My comment about his work had hit the mark, and it had hurt. Detection had never been a dry career for him; and even as I said the words, I had known that they were false. But I had meant to dig a little, to touch his pride. I hoped that he would argue with me and let his guard down for a moment. I wanted to know the story that he had sworn never to tell, to hear about the “subjects that were never to be discussed.” And yet now as I watched the fight in him freeze over, I knew that I had lost the gamble. He would never speak to me and give himself away.

  “Ah, yes, I’d forgotten how important your cousin’s case is to you,” he remarked in a sweet voice. “Is that why you swooned so dramatically into my arms when we first met?”

  He would bring up that humiliating scene every chance he got. That morning would never be allowed to fade; I would relive that swimming darkness every time I saw him. And yet my fainting spell was not what I remembered first when I looked back at it. That moment had merged somehow with the memory of my waking to the brush of his wool jacket on my cheek and his clear voice calling out my name. But I could not think about that now, not while he was studying me with those mocking eyes.

  “Well, I did not come to London to meet you, at any rate,” I retorted as I swept past him toward the landing. “I just have really rotten luck, I think.”

  “Perhaps you do,” he called out softly. “Or perhaps you’ve been waiting for a figment of your imagination.” His voice was gentle, low, and dark, like a whispered confidence. I was already halfway down the stairs before I heard him, but I turned and faced him now and waited, doubtful and uneasy, for his meaning. He could not know, I told myself. There was no way he could have guessed my secret. And yet—

  “I am sorry that I am not the man you hoped to meet,” he concluded in the same soft, sympathetic tone. “But, really, Dora, do you honestly think that anyone else would be giving you this chance?”

  And before I could think of answering, he had shut the door behind me.

  WHEN I RETURNED HOME, Cook was waiting by the servants’ entrance with wide eyes and drawn lips. “She came back twenty minutes ago, miss,” she whispered anxiously to me. “I told her that you’d just slipped out for a bit of air, but I ought to warn you—she’s awful mad now. That’s her pacing, up there.”

  As she spoke, I could hear the angry march of boot heels tapping back and forth above our heads. “I’ll slip into my bedroom now, and after a few minutes I’ll need you to call her for me. Would you tell her that I want to speak with her?”

  She smiled patiently at me and shrugged her shoulders, and I hurried up the stairs to start preparing for my trip. I did not need to pack much clothing, for a cast-off dress would be my servant’s walking outfit, and my maid’s uniform would be provided by Mr. Cartwright. My task now was to perform a lie, a dramatic, tear-filled falsehood, the first of many that I would have to tell.

  I had only moments to prepare, for Adelaide would be coming in to reprimand me soon. I threw open my dresser, pulled out all my dresses, and threw them in a pile upon the bed, then dragged my suitcase out and tossed it by the door. With a rough motion I disarranged my hair, then smudged my face, and sprinkled my handkerchief with water from the washing basin. When I was satisfied with the atmosphere of chaos all around me, I wrapped myself in a blanket and began to cry, quietly. And so Adelaide found me, my cheeks streaked in red and white, my eyes swollen and damp with tears. She had entered with a thunderous brow and a scolding on her lips, but she pa
used when she saw my face.

  “You were right,” I whimpered to her, as she hurried over to sit beside me. “I should never have gone out alone.”

  Her breath caught, and she gripped my hand. “Dora, what happened to you? Where did you go?”

  “I only meant to go out for a little, little bit, just around the corner for some air. I was but a block away when I saw the man. He was standing beneath a lamppost watching me, simply staring at me. I thought at first that I was imagining it, but when I turned in the opposite direction, he moved to follow me. Adelaide, this man has been tracking us since we came to London. He knows about the letters and knows that you have consulted Mr. Porter.”

  I watched her cheeks go pale. I was so sorry for the lies that I was telling and embarrassed by her honest pain. It could not be helped, I reasoned with myself as her arms tightened around my shoulders. Perhaps one day I would tell her the truth but, for now, I had to do this.

  “I walked this way and that, trying to convince myself that I was mistaken,” I continued, my voice sinking into a whisper, “but he was always there, not fifty feet behind me. I finally darted into an alleyway and through a store and so got rid of him. On my way back home I ran into Mr. Cartwright, and I immediately told him what had happened. When I described the gentleman who had followed me, Mr. Cartwright was quite upset. He told me about a great network of criminals, Adelaide, and terrifying stories of what they can do to their intended victims. He suspects that there may be more men involved in this blackmailing scheme than he had thought. And if they are not successful, if their demands are frustrated, Mr. Cartwright is afraid—”

  I let the unfinished sentence hang between us. She shuddered and put her face into her hands for a moment, then lifted it again with new resolve. “You must get away from London,” she told me firmly. “You have to return home.”

  “And bring this danger back with me? To the aunt who trusted me, who took me in? Adelaide, I cannot.”

  “What then? You cannot stay here. They will not harm me, because they are hoping for their payment, but how can I protect you? And when will this nightmare end?”

  “I have to hide,” I murmured. “Until it’s over. That is what he thinks, at least.”

  “What do you mean? Where would you go?”

  “He has a distant relative,” I told her. “A single woman, who lives in the country, in a cottage near Swindon. I could stay with her until this has passed. She only keeps one elderly servant, and they will be discreet and will not tell tales after I am gone.”

  She stared at me for a moment in disbelief. “Mr. Cartwright’s found a hiding place for you? Just like that? When—when did this happen?”

  “Well, this is not the first time a client has been threatened, apparently,” I explained. “Mr. Porter has run into this problem before. He has represented several witnesses who had to testify against criminal organizations, innocent people who were being pressured to keep silent. Mr. Cartwright’s relative has taken in women in the past and watched over them until their court appearance.” I was making this story up as I went along, spinning a yarn of convoluted lies and hoping that it sounded reasonable. But she was still shaking her head doubtfully, her eyes clouded in worried thought.

  I had to argue now, I realized. I had to make her think that this was her idea, her recommendation, not mine, or she would never agree to it.

  “But I do not want to go, Adelaide,” I shot out desperately. “I don’t care how dangerous it is! Please, I want to stay with you.”

  My protest made her wince, and the tears started to her eyes. “No, no, he’s right, Dora, you have to go,” she told me sadly. “I would never forgive myself if anything happened to you. I was supposed to be guiding and protecting you, but instead I have actually put you in this danger. You have to go.”

  “Oh, but—”

  “No, Dora. I have already made up my mind.”

  I sighed and wrapped the blanket tighter around my shoulders. “Then I’ll write to Mr. Cartwright and let him know of your decision, Adelaide,” I told her wearily.

  “No, I will write to him. An unmarried girl does not write letters to a young gentleman, Dora. No matter what the circumstances.”

  I dropped my head to hide my smile. Until the last, through blackmail schemes and looming scandal, even beneath the shadowy threat of the lurking Underworld, my cousin would always remain the perfect, proper lady.

  Dear Detective in the Sky,

  After my mother passed, my cousin suggested that I write letters to her as if she were still alive. She said it might help the grieving process if I pretended that she was still with me.

  So now as I sit here waiting for my “chaperone” to take me to my new assignment, I’m thinking about Adelaide’s advice and realizing that I want to speak with you more than ever. I know we’ve never met, that we will never meet, but I think I need you even more now than I ever have. So much has happened in the last few days, and I find that I have no one to confide in. To start with, I have deceived my family and frightened Adelaide. And yet somehow I do not feel as badly as I ought. I admit that I’m excited, more excited than I’ve ever been. I’ve thought this over carefully, and I’ve come to the following conclusion: I have you to thank for all of this.

  Here are the facts: If I had not learned of you, I would not have studied crime detection. If I had not known about you, I would not have come to London with my cousin. If I had not come looking for you, I would not have run into Mr. Cartwright.

  If not for you, I would not have had the courage to step into my first adventure.

  Thank you, sir, for these beginnings.

  Yours gratefully,

  Dora Joyce

  P.S. By the way, you should know my feelings for Mr. Cartwright are strictly professional.

  I folded the letter, slipped it into the flap inside my picture frame, and settled back to wait.

  The woman who came for me the following morning was something of a surprise to me, but she fairly took my cousin’s breath away. I had expected an elderly spinster or a stately matron, but the iron spike who introduced herself as Miss Mina Prim was so respectable that she was nearly unbelievable. With graying hair and pointed bun, hooked nose and steel spectacles, black crape and high, stiff collar, she looked like a schoolmistress from a Dickens novel come to whisk me away to a distant nunnery. I wondered where she had hidden her wooden ruler and if she would soon start smacking me across the palms with it.

  “Well, Lady Forrester, I presume that this is my unfortunate young girl?” she demanded in a reedy, nasal whine, waving a bony finger in my face like a baton.

  “This is Dora, Mrs. Prim,” Adelaide replied and put her arm about my shoulder. There was a look of pity in my cousin’s eyes, and she patted my hair sympathetically.

  “Miss, Your Ladyship, Miss Prim. Now, if Miss Joyce is ready, my instructions are to take her directly to my home and to keep her with me until I hear from you or Mr. Cartwright. Is that correct?”

  My cousin nodded, and I stepped forward meekly.

  “Very well. My address is known to Mr. Cartwright. Any letters to her may be sent to him and he will deliver them to me. That way, no one can trace them, do you understand?”

  Adelaide nodded once again and kissed me on the cheek. “I’m sorry, Dora,” she murmured sadly. She was looking at the terrifying spinster as she said it.

  “I don’t want to go,” I whispered to her, and began to back away; but the cabbie had already grabbed my bag and turned his back to me. Miss Mina Prim solemnly linked her arm through mine and pulled.

  A final smile, a brief embrace, and I was pushed across the house, out the door, and into the waiting hansom in the street. The driver flicked his whip and we were off, and my cousin’s figure faded quickly into the fog.

  My plan had worked; I could scarcely believe my luck. Just four days ago I had been someone’s pesky ward, a misplaced nuisance, my good aunt’s burden. And now I was completely free.

  “I want
to thank you—” I began, turning eagerly to my stern companion. “You certainly put my cousin’s mind at ease—”

  “Confound this bloody dress!” my new companion snarled, tearing convulsively at the lace around her neck. “Blasted thing is killin’ me. Can’t bloody breathe!”

  Miss Mina Prim’s nasal whine had vanished, and my “lady” spoke now in a rumbling bass, punctuated with expressions that I would never be able to repeat. “Ah, that’s better,” my chaperone declared as the collar buttons came undone and a rather prominent Adam’s apple breathed its freedom. “These corsets are bad enough, but I’ll never understand why you women insist on wearing chokers all the time, too.”

  I blinked at him. “First time in lady’s clothing, sir?”

  The fellow gave me an offended sniff and spit loudly into the street. “Certainly not! I’m an experienced actor, miss, and so I’m quite familiar with women’s clothing. Unfortunately, business has been rather slow recently, so I was obliged to take this little escort job. You needn’t worry, miss, I’m quite discreet. I make my ‘deliveries,’ take my payment, and ask no questions. It’s not my business where you’re going.”

  He grinned and gave me a confidential wink, then pulled a flask out from under his dress and began to drain it in loud, contented gulps. Two odorous whiskey belches completed his performance, and he finally slumped against the cushion and fell asleep. I stared at him for a moment and smothered a smile. This person who was now salivating on his hat was the one charged with protecting my respectability and reputation. The irony of my position was both terrifying and amusing. Somewhere in my imagination, I could hear Peter Cartwright laughing heartily.