Secret Letters (8 page)

“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.

W
HEN
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 paused 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.

Our driver halted a few feet from Porter’s door. My soused companion roused himself, swore briefly, and stumbled from the hansom. I moved to follow him, but he waved me back into the cab and instructed me to wait until Mr. Cartwright signaled to me. Then he vanished down the street, and I settled back to watch patiently for my summons.

The signal came after Mr. Porter’s exit from the flat. Barely a quarter of an hour after my arrival, Porter hurried out his door and hailed a passing hansom. As he stepped into the carriage, the window shutters opened, and Cartwright peered down at me through the gap. I waved at him and jumped out of the cab.

He was hovering by the doorway when I came in, and, as I extended one hand to him in greeting, he grabbed me by the wrist and pulled my glove off with his fingers.

“White leather!” he thundered before I could say a word. “And this season’s lavender chiffon? Are you posing as the richest scullery maid in England?”

“But these are the oldest clothes I’ve got.”

He sighed and tugged briskly at the bellpull. “Janet,” he told the little maid when she appeared, “please bring Miss Joyce something unattractive to wear at once.”

The girl ran off without a word and returned immediately, bearing a faded Worthing dress, which she laid reverently at my feet. She gave me an apologetic curtsy and then vanished as I tried to thank her.

“You may dress quickly in the spare room there, Miss Joyce,” Cartwright muttered and turned away from me.

There was a weird tension in the air around him, an unnatural electricity that I could not understand. He had not smiled once since I had come; he had barely met my eye. I was glad for the excuse to get away, and I slipped gratefully into the empty chamber to change my costume.

As I struggled with the row of buttons and the ragged bows around my wrists, I examined my new form before the mirror, frowning at the shapeless sleeves, the high, pinched collar, and the lumpy skirt. The bodice was cut for a bulkier girl, and I used the opportunity to loosen the stays and lacing of my corset. I took a shallow breath, relaxed my ribs, stretched out my back, and exhaled happily, enjoying my unexpected freedom. I looked terrible in the cast-off dress, like a sagging gift box wrapped in tattered ribbons, but I did not care. It felt so wonderful to breathe again.

When I re-entered the sitting room, Peter Cartwright was pacing by the window, chewing alternately on a cinnamon pastry and his thumbnail. The tension in his face had not eased at all; he appeared more distant and uncomfortable than before. I curtsied casually, but he stared helplessly at me without responding to my smile; even when I lisped out, “Well, Your Lordship?” he did not move.

This was not the careless boy I knew; he seemed so awkward now, so raw and restless. I wanted to call out to him, to bring him back, to shake him, to be bold and silly so that he might mock me one more time. This creeping quiet troubled me, not just because it was unnatural for him but also because I was beginning to suspect that I was actually the cause of it. Was he doubting my abilities? I wondered suddenly. Was he was going to change his mind and send me home?

I had to act immediately. I had to say something, anything; I had to show him what I could do,
now
, before he spoke and it was over.

If the driver had not entered at that moment, I might have lost my chance. But as Cartwright reached past me to grab my suitcase, I darted forward and pulled it from him, stumbling toward the startled cabbie in my eagerness. This young coachman would be the first witness to my disguise, I decided quickly, and my final chance to prove myself.

I smiled shyly at the cabbie as he reached out for my valise and allowed our fingertips to touch briefly before drawing my hand away with a little blush. The young man seemed startled by my gesture and slightly pleased, and I held his look, my confidence growing as his color deepened.

“You will help me at the station, sir?” I murmured sweetly to him. “I’ve never been out of the city before, and I’m terrible scared of gettin’ lost.”

From beneath lowered eyelids, I watched him stammer and wag his head, his lips hanging open, his fingers playing nervously with his lapel. “O’ course, miss, o’ course,” he said.

“I’ll see ye onto your train myself, ye needn’t worry…”

“That will be all, sir!” Peter Cartwright cut in, sharply. “You may wait for her downstairs.”

The coachman shrank back into his overcoat, muttering his apologies. He gave me a final timid glance, grabbed my suitcase, and scurried out the door. After the man had gone, I turned confidently to my companion and waited for his reaction. He had asked me earlier if I could act the part, and I had just proven that I could. And yet there was no satisfaction or approval in his eyes. In truth, he seemed rather shocked and not particularly impressed. There was a rising color in his cheeks, and his lips played nervously with each other. He raised his head slowly and looked at me, his features drawn and wary, his hands clenched together behind his back.

“What
was
that, please?” he muttered between his teeth.

“I—was trying out my character,” I faltered. “Was it not convincing?”

“Convincing? The fluttering eyelids, the perfect helplessness—the pouting lips?” He paused suddenly and cleared his throat. “Yes, it was
quite
a show.”

“Thank you. I’m glad you liked it. May I go then?” One of my hands was already on the doorknob.

He moved to stand in front of me and placed his palm upon the handle, his fingers came to rest beside my own.

“Wait a moment, please, Miss Joyce. There is something I must say to you.”

His voice was low and troubled, his head was bowed, his hand shifted slightly back to cover mine. He was standing very close to me; I could feel his shallow breath warm against my skin.

“I can see you’re worried about sending me to Hartfield,” I began. “But I promise that you won’t regret it. I know that I can help you solve this case…” I paused, uncertain, swallowing the ending in my confusion.

“What are you talking about?” he shot out irritably. “I wasn’t thinking about the case! I am only thinking about—” He stopped suddenly, undecided, and exhaled slowly.

“You have to promise me—” He continued in a softer voice. “You have to promise to be more cautious. I’ve seen how innocent and thoughtless you can be.” I started to turn away, but he grabbed my hand and pulled me back. “Wait, Dora, I’m begging you, just this once
listen
to me—please.” He was looking directly at me now, his skin deepening to a dark, unhappy scarlet. “You’ve been so sheltered from the world; perhaps you’ll think that I am simply trying to frighten you. I may not be much older than you, Dora, but I have seen some things, some men—brutal, vicious men, who will think nothing of—” He paused again and shook his head. There was an uncertain, wandering expression in his eyes, like a child waking from a bad dream.

“Please,” I whispered to him and moved to draw my hand away, for his grip had tightened suddenly, and my fingers had gone cold. “Please, Peter, let me go.”

His hand slipped suddenly from mine. I pulled my throbbing wrist away and leaned my back against the door. Three livid fingerprints stood out in red upon my skin, and we both stared at the marks in silence for a moment.

“Dora, wait, I’m sorry—”

But I had already turned away, throwing off the arm which he’d extended, as I hurried past him to the street.