Secret Letters (15 page)

“If anything happens to me—I just wanted someone to know,” she continued. “I wanted to tell someone before I went. I thought that maybe you would understand. Afterward, if I am ill, you will stop them gossiping won’t you? When I am better I will hand in my notice. If you’re ever in London, you can look me up—the Appledore Towers, Hampstead—that’s where I’ll be. You don’t have to, of course. I’ll understand if you’d rather not.”

“I won’t forget you.”

Her tired face lit up, and she embraced me, tearfully.

As I put my arms around her, she began to sob in muffled, ragged gasps against my neck, and I held her as she cried, and listened to her pleading murmur, “I’m sorry, oh, my poor mother, I’m so, so sorry,” until it died in sleep. Then I laid her head down on my pillow and sat huddled in my blanket, watching her as she dreamed. She had begged for forgiveness for something she could not change, from a mother who could no longer comfort her. That misery, at least, I could understand.

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING
I found Perkins at our meeting rock by the toolshed and delivered the rest of my message.

Mr. Cartwright—

Meet me at Mulligan’s Tavern in Sheffield Green at four this afternoon. Bring a dog with a good sense of smell. Also a Bible.

Dora

P.S.
I am no longer writing you long letters. From
now on you will only get instructions. Nothing to mock
in this one, is there?

Perkins took my note, and in turn handed me a letter from Adelaide, which she had sent through Cartwright. It was a long, sweet message, and it made me feel guiltier than ever. There was a good deal of worrying in it, and tearful questions, and pleas for news from me.
Please let me know that I was right to send you with that woman. Did Miss Prim give you my last letter? Dora, I will not sleep until I hear from you
, she’d written. She did not mention the reason for my situation, however; her blackmail case was not anywhere in the message. Perhaps she was afraid that her letter to me would miscarry as the others had and end up in the wrong hands, or perhaps she was so scared for me that her own concerns had faded into the background. Either way, I had to ease her mind, and soon. I would write to her the next opportunity, I vowed. But I’d have to think of something innocent to say before I did.
Dear Adelaide, I’m about to meet a young man in a tavern
did not seem appropriate for the occasion.

I tucked her letter in my pocket and rushed off to complete my chores before my appointment with Cartwright.

Our assigned meeting place was located on the north side of the tenant farmers’ village, about a mile from the country estate. Mulligan’s Tavern was hardly the sort of place that any respectable young woman would enter, and therefore seemed to be the best choice. It was also ideal because the staff of Hartfield never frequented it, preferring establishments that catered to servants of nobility. I had briefly considered the sitting room at the village inn, but dismissed it when I learned that the innkeeper’s wife was Mrs. Bentney’s cousin, and that she spent her idle hours ferreting out tidy bits of gossip about everyone she met.

The tavern was a garishly painted hovel wedged between two other seedy establishments. The entire row of shops sagged in the middle and appeared to be supported by a single moldy beam and by the men who gathered there during their lunch hour to sponge away their boredom with beer and bawdy humor. Several workmen tottered about declaring their affection for absent women. At the far end of the room a little girl pushed her unconscious father off his stool and screamed at the barkeep in a shrill voice. A party of stable hands sat in an exclusive, tight circle in the center, smoking and debating the relative merits of various oats. I chose a corner table and ordered a cup of cider, which was delivered to me in a filmy glass by a very friendly ex-mariner with no teeth.

I settled back in my chair and tried to appear at home, and even to enjoy myself a little. After all, young girls from good families did not normally enter taverns; my aunt would have disowned me for even considering such a thing. So perhaps I should have relished the dense smoke and the plaintive tunes from the fiddler in the opposite corner. A bold detective’s apprentice would have inhaled the atmosphere, I suppose, and been proud of her new liberty. But, for all my boldness, I could not wait to leave.

Except for two jaundiced hags at a back table, I was the only female customer in the place, and that realization made me quite uncomfortable. In entering the pub, I had left my respectability at the door and was now regarded by all present as a lady of dubious virtue. It was difficult to ignore the workmen by the bar, who leered at me over their drinks and made audible comments about my figure.

After some vain attempts to drain the liquid in my glass, I began a careful study of every character in that place, concerned that perhaps I had overlooked some shadowy figure and missed Cartwright in disguise. It was soon evident that he was late and that the little urchin by the window was in fact young Perkins, with a scarf over his face. He sat quietly, his head down, and pretended not to watch me. The child had obviously been sent to keep an eye on me until his friend arrived.

It was more than just embarrassing; it was insulting to be guarded by a little boy. I was tired of being treated as an innocent, vulnerable child who required constant supervision. And yet, I was just that, I thought with a sting of shame, a country girl from southern England who knew nothing of the world. I glanced again at the fiddler in the corner and the knot of dancers who had gathered near him. A sweaty farmer, on his way to the drunken reel, tripped past my table and upset my chair, knocking me to the ground.

As he extended his hand to me and helped me to my feet, a great shout arose from the group before the bar. I looked up, surprised, and saw that the farmer was bowing to me, as if asking me to dance. My aunt’s face flashed across my mind.
Drinking in a tavern is bad enough, but
dancing
?
I heard her whinny.

But the farmer had grasped my hand now and had twirled me about, ignoring my cry of protest. And now his hands were behind his back and he was capering about in front of me. The fat little musician plucked his strings and began an Irish jig. I shook my head emphatically and scrambled toward my seat. A cry of disappointment erupted from the drunken crowd.

“Come on, lass, give us a dance!”

What was I to do? What would Cartwright think? I was not to be conspicuous, not to draw attention to myself; he had told me that more than once. But what was more conspicuous—a girl who sat stubbornly glaring at a party, or one who went along with the entertainment? What would my character do in such a situation? The crowd was clapping now, circling my chair, whistling with the music. How long could I sit there dumbly watching them? Where was Peter Cartwright when I needed him?

And the music, the melody, was growing louder and more insistent; two more fiddlers had emerged from among the shadows, and the beat of dancing feet drummed steadily through me. I sat staring at the dancers, my fingers gripping the fabric of my skirt, my chair bouncing to the rhythm of the pounding boots. I might have sat that way forever if another of the farmers had not stopped his prancing for a moment and, before I could object, grabbed me by the hands and pulled me up. He wouldn’t let go this time but held on to my fingers with a drunken persistence.

I glanced at Perkins again and shrugged helplessly at him. He was no longer pretending not to watch me. The scarf had fallen from his face, and his mouth was hanging open in disbelief. He knew what I was thinking.

I nodded at the farmer and curtsied sweetly, then, smiling my surrender, put my arms behind my back and slowly began to dance. This was no stately ballroom waltz or promenade, but a lively hornpipe jig, which soon led into a frenetic reel. A few years back I had learned the steps from our former gardener (before my aunt dismissed him), and now as the music swelled I found that I still remembered what he’d taught me. The throb of melody was coursing through me, and I danced now as I had never danced before, as no well-bred lady could. The musicians increased the tempo. Accuracy and rhythm were sacrificed to speed as the crowd shouted for more. My embarrassment had melted with the first steps, and now I would not have stopped the song for anyone.

I cannot remember exactly how I ended up singing and dancing on the table. It certainly was not my intention to do any such thing. The crowd in the back had started craning their necks and pushing aside their friends, so a fellow dancer grabbed me by the waist and hoisted me up there to pacify them. I should have gotten down immediately, of course, but the fire of the moment was intoxicating, and I could not stop. And the fiddler had begun “The Jolly Beggar” now, so I joined in at the chorus line. I had already lost my respectability, after all. It could not hurt to sing a little.

I am truly sorry that Cartwright chose to make his entrance in the middle of the song, while I was belting out the naughtiest rhyme.

He was not difficult to recognize, even under his workman’s disguise. As he came in through the door, I quickly glanced away and concentrated on the verse that I was singing.

He took her in his arms and to the bed he ran

Kind sir, she says, be easy now, you’ll waken our good man.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Perkins scurry out of the tavern. Cartwright crossed his arms and advanced toward me, making his way deliberately through the crowd. I would not look directly at him. At that moment the rickety bench on which I was balanced presented a sufficient challenge without the added distraction of those horrified green eyes. With every little move, the table groaned and swayed and threatened to give way.

It was the loose back leg of my “stage” that proved to be my undoing. I could have ignored my friend’s black looks indefinitely had it not been for that sorry piece of furniture. An unlucky back step, a crack, a splinter, and a shout, and I fell from glory. I regret to report that I hit Cartwright on the way down.

The farmers shouted for more as I scrambled to my feet, but I shook my head and curtsied, and the crowd melted away, grumbling. Peter Cartwright gave me a tired look and jerked his thumb in the direction of a vacant corner. As I settled there, one of the workmen made a lewd comment about my figure. Cartwright glanced up sharply, fists clenched. A moment later he had remembered himself and settled back, though his pale cheeks stayed dark for quite some time.

I was not sure how to begin. Some explanation of my behavior seemed in order, but the excitement of the dance still lingered in my imagination. A meek apology would have sounded insincere, especially when contrasted with my tousled curls and the flush upon my cheeks.

So I said what I was thinking.

“I’m sorry that I landed on you.”

His eyes were expressionless, narrow and quiet. He would not look at me.

“I—they were dancing, and—I could not draw attention to myself—” I paused, embarrassed by his silence. He still had not looked up. The last whispers of my confidence began to fade away, and I cast about for a new approach.

“I’ve discovered some new evidence!” I concluded desperately.

He plucked a telegram from his jacket pocket. “I suppose you wish to enlighten me about this message, which just arrived this morning. Mr. Porter has been crowing about it since it came. ‘
Have received a communication from our daugh
ter. Please come to estate tomorrow evening to discuss. Lord Hartfield.
’”

I pulled Lady Rose’s letter from my pocket. “I have her ‘communication’ here, actually.”

He started and finally met my eyes. “You
stole
it?” he hissed at me. “How could you—they will notice that it’s gone!”

“The earl tried to
burn
it,” I retorted angrily. “If I hadn’t rescued it from the fire, you wouldn’t have this clue at all.”

He snatched the envelope from my hand, turned it over, and stared for a moment at the blackened edges. I thought he would begin with a commentary about the postmark or an examination of the script, but instead he dropped the paper on the table and crossed his arms. “Show me your other hand, Dora,” he demanded.

I had passed the letter to him with my right hand; the left arm I had kept hidden beneath my apron. Reluctantly I extended my injured palm across the table and looked away. Even in the dim light my wound was terrible to see, a discolored swelling above my wrist, crusted scabs by the blistered edge, and a scarlet streak that radiated to my elbow.

He inhaled sharply and caught my hand, and slowly turned it toward the light. “For heaven’s sake,” he gasped. “What have you done?”

“What else could I do?” I protested. “I had to rescue the letter. At any rate—I’m fine, it doesn’t really hurt,” I added, even though my fingers had gone numb, and I could feel my pulse shooting raw heat through my palm.

“It doesn’t hurt?” he responded with a doubtful frown. “Dora, please, stop being brave, I’m begging you. This really is a serious injury.”

“I’m
not
being brave, I barely feel it,” I insisted doggedly. “And you needn’t fuss at me like a mother hen.”

“I’m not—” he began heatedly and then paused. There was no longer any frustration in his expression; his look was still severe, but he appeared bewildered now, and his eyes had widened in real concern. He would not release my hand.

“Listen, Dora. I appreciate what you’re doing, I truly do,” he continued in a gentler tone. “But you needn’t torture yourself like this. I’ll find another way to approach this case. I’d rather do that than have you injured or falling ill—”

But I wasn’t going to listen to the rest. He was trying to send me home, I realized, to take me off the case before it was finished. I knew that he was truly anxious for me, and it pleased me a little to see the honest worry in his eyes. But there was no way that I would step down now. “No, don’t say that, please!” I pleaded, pulling my arm back and tucking it beneath my apron. “Peter, you have to listen to me. My hand is well enough for now, and I promise that I’ll tell you if I’m feeling ill. I’ll walk away myself if I have to. But you need to trust me just a little. I won’t endanger the case, I won’t damage your career.
Please
, Peter.”