Secret Letters (13 page)

N
OW THAT
I
WAS
certain Lady Rose had been abducted and I had identified James as the most likely suspect, how could I discover where he had taken her? Before the day was out I would need to report something to Cartwright, who was likely waiting anxiously for my message. But he would ask for proof of James’s guilt, some evidence that identified him as the man who had addressed and posted the envelope. I would need to get a sample of James’s writing. The obvious next step would be to rummage through the valet’s room for some scrap or note he had written, but I had no doubt that Agatha’s snooping had already put him on his guard, and he likely kept all of his papers hidden away as a security against her prying. I searched for a solution as I descended to the kitchen. The dinner party was under way, and they would be calling for me anyway.

The guests had come for an overnight stay, as their estate was too far for a comfortable nighttime return. In preparation, the bedrooms had been aired and linen laid, coal brought into previously empty hearths and curtains brushed. Sauces had been boiled, fowl roasted, meat joints braised, and puddings set. The silverware had been carefully polished and turned, and the table set for twenty in precisely measured rows.

As the dinner was now drawing to a close, I begged leave to tend to my wounded arm, which had begun to ache. The housekeeper took one look at my weeping skin and indicated the supply room where I might find some clean rags and salves, but warned me to return immediately after I had done. When she had gone, I wrapped my blistered palm in a moistened dressing and tied the ends over my sleeve, then quickly slipped outside to find my little messenger.

Perkins was hovering by the toolshed. I, of course, had no message to relay to Cartwright yet; I wanted to have a complete chain of evidence before I wrote to him. Still, I had to communicate with my messenger that evening, if only to reassure Cartwright that I was doing well and progressing in my investigation.

“I’ll check back again, in a couple of hours,” he told me with a shrug. “Meantime I’m supposed to give you this.” He handed me a crumpled letter, touched his cap, and disappeared over the hill. I crouched by the servants’ entrance with my note and read it over by the dim gaslight.

My dear assistant,

I have not heard from you for some time, so I must assume that something terribly exciting has occurred that has left you no opportunity to write to me. I know that it is challenging to you to remain focused on your mission when you’re surrounded by so many devilishly handsome bachelors, but perhaps you can remember that I am waiting patiently for some news?

I know how much you admire my methods of investigation and how you must be aching to imitate every
thing I do, but may I remind you that I climbed out of Lady Rose’s window in order to clarify a clue? You didn’t need to repeat the exercise. But if you felt you
had to, did you have to hurl yourself down a tree to do so?

You needn’t look so shocked, my friend. Perkins heard your scream and saw you get hoisted back into the house. Who else witnessed your entertaining act, may I ask? Is all of Hartfield now aware that there is a batty housemaid scaling trees outside her master’s windows?

While you’ve been playing at whatever you’ve been playing at, I have been on James’s trail. There are a few points that still need clarifying, and I am work
ing on them now. May I ask if anyone has mentioned the name Mark Fellows, or the squire from Lambley? If they do, please make a note of it.

Your patient servant,

Peter Cartwright

P.S. I would burn this letter if I were you. There are far too many questionable letters floating about in this case, and I don’t want to add mine to the pile.

I crushed the paper in my fingers and shoved it roughly into my pocket. I would certainly be burning it when I got a moment free, but now, with the dinner party and the tidying up that would follow, I had no time for anything. It was easy for him to laugh, I thought irritably. He had no other obligations; he was not hampered by his disguise. I was supposed to be both bold and cautious all at once, all while obeying a short-tempered housekeeper.

As I entered the kitchen, I was summoned to relight an extinguished fire in the drawing room. I had just completed my task when the door opened and the ladies entered, resplendent in their silk dinner gowns and eager to share the most current news in gossip and high fashion. A maid of my station was not permitted near the company, so I shrank quietly into the adjoining anteroom and watched them from behind the door. Lady Hartfield swept into the room first, followed by Lady Jane (Lord Victor’s fiancée), the Duchess of Wellsborough (the fiancée’s mother), and several older relatives of the bride.

The women had contented themselves with polite commentaries on horse breeding and politics throughout dinner to please their male companions. Now, as their husbands relaxed with port and cigars in the other room, the real conversation flowed fast and free. The talk was thick with details about lace prices and milliners, fascinating descriptions about ballroom slippers and bouffant sleeves and frightening tales of gown trains that tore in two when young debutantes backed away from their presentation to the queen.

The subject of clothing was discussed and put to rest, and a brief and awkward silence reigned. My eyes fixed on Lady Jane during that moment, and I was glad to study her from my dark corner by the door. She was a shiny, soft bubble of a woman, with dimpled skin powdered pink and white, and a head of flaxen curls. She was clearly the only one of the party who was enjoying herself, for the rest of the women appeared drained by the proceedings, though they tried to politely hide the fact. No silence was too short or too awkward but Lady Jane proved ready to fill it with the chirp of her voice. Irrelevant questions about nothing spilled from her lips, directed at everyone and no one.

During the pause, Lady Jane’s restless little eyes fixed on a feature of the room and a stream of commentaries flowed forth. “Those velvet drapes are lovely. Wherever did you get them? That’s an interesting shade of red. What color would you say it is? What sort of elms are there by the stream? I adore elms. Do the bushes by the front of the home bloom all year or only in the spring? Are you happy with your gardeners? Were they born on the estate, or are they imported?” And so on, until the lady of the house began to droop and look about desperately for some distraction.

I had almost given up hope of hearing anything of interest when Lady Jane leaned over to her future mother-in-law and commented, “Why, I had quite forgotten to ask after Rose, Lady Hartfield! How is she? We heard that she had taken ill! Nothing serious, I hope?”

“Not at all, my dear,” replied the elder lady without hesitation. “Her aunt, you know, has been very poorly for several weeks, and Rose insisted on going down to stay with her. Several days ago she came down with a bad chill and has taken to her bed. I just received a letter from her assuring me that it is nothing serious and that she is looking forward to the wedding.”

The brazen lie impressed me. Lady Hartfield was planning to preserve appearances to the last, it seemed.

“I am glad,” chirped Lady Jane. “I do so long to see her. Did I tell you that I got a letter from her this past Wednesday? She asked if she might come visit me the following day. I wrote back immediately, but I got no answer. My response must have arrived after she had left for her aunt’s home.”

“I will forward it on to her if you like.”

“Oh, it is of no account, Lady Hartfield, for it was she who made the appointment, not I, and now it is quite broken, I think. She wrote that she had something she needed to speak to me about. Can you imagine what it was? The wedding procession, do you think? Was she unhappy with her dress?”

“Oh, not at all, my dear. I am certain she is delighted with it! We all have been so excited about the wedding.”

“As have we, my dear,” chimed in the duchess. “It is so
good
to see a young man choosing a bride from among his own. It seems that half of the young men these days are choosing not to marry, or are being caught by those vulgar American heiresses. It’s caused an alarming shortage of eligible bachelors.”

“But, of course, you know what they say, Mother,” chimed in Lady Jane. “One wedding brings another.” And she glanced significantly at Lady Rose’s portrait.

Lady Hartfield smiled patiently and cast about for another topic of conversation. “Have you read anything of interest lately, Jane?” she inquired.

“Yes, indeed, Mother is quite adamant that I read for the improvement of my mind. I don’t think she approves of my choice of material, though. What was it you said about my last favorite, Mother? Remember ‘The Sign of the Four,’ the mystery story?”

“Shocking. No moral value at all. And the detective in it, whom everyone seems to admire so, was worst of all.”

“Mother met him a few months ago. She objected to the fact that he was not married,” sniffed the bride.

“There is a
crisis
, Jane, and young men ought not to ignore it.”

“Well, I read that he was killed, Mother. He got into a fight with someone and was pushed into a waterfall.”

“There now! Just as I said! That never would have happened if he had settled down. Jane, please pass the plate of licorice over here. The smell is really quite enticing.”

And a sudden thrill went through me, for that platter of sweets had given me the inspiration that I needed. It was a daring plan and very risky, but the key to the mystery could be in my hands that evening. I slipped out of the drawing room and headed for the stairs. A quick visit to the pantry and a few minutes in the lower bedrooms provided me with the tools I needed.

Now I only had to get James to notice me.

I
EMERGED FROM THE
lower bedrooms carrying a tall pile of linen stripped from servants’ beds. My hair was tucked inside my cap, held in place with one brave little pin, and the collar of my high-necked dress was missing a rather crucial button. In my pocket I carried a vial of anise oil. I had unwrapped my burned hand, and the blistered flesh smarted painfully as the bandage came away. It was an ugly sight, but it would make my little performance more convincing.

And so I paced the halls and waited for my chance. The passageway that I was guarding was the route from the dining room to the cellar, and I knew that it was just a matter of time before the gentlemen ran out of port and sent the valet for more. My patience was rewarded finally when James stepped out from around the corner, carrying a bottle and a corkscrew. I waited until he was two feet in front of me, and as I moved aside to let him pass, a turn of the ankle brought me tumbling down before him, dirty linen scattering in every direction. As I fell, I pushed the vial from my pocket, and it shattered on the parquet floor, showering us both with broken glass and pungent oil. In the confusion, I managed to knock the cap off my head, the little pin popped out, and my hair came down in a dark mass of curls around my face. The collar button had come open on its own, exposing a few inches of bare neck (and perhaps a trifle more).

I waited until the flustered valet was less than a foot from me, and as he extended his arm to help me up, I lifted my eyes and showed my injured hand to him.

“I’m sorry I’m so clumsy,” I gasped, “but it hurts to move my wrist.”

Clutching his outstretched arm, I scrambled to my feet, and as I did, I stumbled back over the oil and pulled him forward. Both his shoes were slick with anise now. The easy portion of my plan had passed. It was now time for the daring part.

I held his arm a moment longer and waited, painfully aware of the little patch of white beneath my open collar. His eyes skimmed down my neckline, then traveled farther, to the edge of my chemise. I ducked my head and clutched defensively at my collar, and he flushed to the roots of his blond hair but did not look away.

“I’d better go and get a broom,” I gasped, “before anyone sees this mess.”

“Why don’t you sit down a moment here and collect yourself?” he suggested in a kind tone. “You’re looking a bit ragged. I’ll clean this up.” His eyes had not left my face.

“I—I’m not allowed to sit on any of the furniture,” I protested meekly.

He shook his head and sighed. “Of course you’re not, how stupid of me,” he remarked. He picked up one of the sheets that I had dropped and spread it across the floor. “There we are—that will do for now. You can rest on that.”

As I watched him, he gathered up the loose linen and folded it carefully by my feet, then mopped up the anise oil with a cloth square and placed it beside the pile. When he was done, he squatted by my side and regarded me quietly for a moment. I could not think of anything to say to him—but he did not seem to notice my discomfort, just stared at me as if he was expecting me to speak.

I was nervous, and the longer he watched me, the more nervous I became. There was something unnatural in his look, a vague doubt lurking in his eyes. On the surface he was all pleasantness and charm, his full lips curled into an easy smile, a healthy blush still coloring his cheeks. But there was a tension beneath it all, a ripple of a muscle in his neck, a tautness in his posture, a slight tilt of his head toward me. He was waiting, I realized, waiting for me to give something away.

But what exactly was he waiting for? Was he simply charmed by my helpless maiden act? Or was he wondering about me now? Was he questioning my role at Hartfield, my arrival so soon after Lady Rose’s disappearance, my presence in Lord Victor’s room earlier in the evening? Had I gone too far with my little scheme just now and made myself look suspicious?

I had to act quickly, I realized; I had to do something to throw him off the scent, or my plan would fall apart before I could put it into action. But even as I cast about desperately for a distraction, his hand had already traveled to my hair. Slowly, with almost seductive care, he brushed his finger through a curl beside my ear and plucked a little shard of glass out of the strand. He held it up with a short laugh and then tossed it over his shoulder. “You have to be more careful, little one,” he told me playfully. “Especially if you plan on following me.”

I felt my face flush dark, and I drew back in embarrassment. There could be only two possible meanings to his joke—and one of them did not bode well for me. There was only one way to look innocent, I realized, and that was to admit my guilt openly and beg him to forgive me.

I lifted my head and met his gaze, then slowly widened my eyes in meek amazement. “How did you
know
?” I asked him in a shocked whisper. “Was it really obvious?”

He relaxed a little and leaned back against the wall. The wary expression had faded somewhat, but I saw that he had not completely let his guard down. “Well, only a little,” he admitted with a smirk. “I couldn’t help noticing that you happened to be everywhere I was today.”

I giggled bashfully and scrambled to my feet. “I’m very sorry about that,” I breathed. “Please don’t tell anyone that I’ve been so foolish. I promise not to bother you again.”

Before he could respond, I scooped the pile of linen off the floor and backed away from him, still holding one guarded arm across my chest. He grinned at me and opened his mouth to speak but I had already turned and was running down the hall. As I rounded the corner I glanced back and saw that he was still staring after me, lips parted in a pleased, distracted smile.

My plan could have gone far worse, I reflected as I put away the dirty linen. And I’d discovered that playing silly maidservant had more advantages than I had thought. Criminal or not, I now knew for certain that the man was vulnerable to flattery. And truthfully, despite my pity for Agatha, I could not entirely regret my brief flirtation with the dashing valet. He had looked so very captivated in that moment. I had never experienced anything like that before. The men of my acquaintance were too well-bred to show a lady such attention. Even Mr. Cartwright—well, I had no idea what he thought of me. So far he had treated me more like an interesting pet or toy, rather than as a young woman.

I thought about Cartwright’s warning as I prepared the final portion of my plan. “You are so innocent and thoughtless, Dora,” he had insisted. He had instructed me to be only a naïve observer, a sweet and timid maidservant. This was not turning out as either of us had expected.

My dear James,

I am so hapy that I come to Hartfield now. I am
sorry about my clumsyness this evening. I hope we
can meet again somtime soon. Peraps after dinner
tommorrow? By the stables near the greenery. Please
rite if you can come and leave your note by the fowtain.

The next time he emerged from the dining room, I was ready with my message. As he passed me, I saw him wink broadly in my direction. I reached out my arm to stop him, and he froze in surprise as I extended my note in a shaking hand. He took it from me without a word, but his fingers brushed over my wrist in a teasing caress, like a subtle tickle.

I was lucky that no one had seen his gesture, or the rumors of a brewing romance would have reached the kitchen within the hour. That would have been a painful and embarrassing complication for me. I was sorry enough already for betraying Agatha; she did not have to learn that her only friend at Hartfield was flirting with the man she loved. He was not worthy of her heart, it was true, but that did not lessen my treachery or my guilt. The sooner my double role was over, the better.

His reply came sooner than I expected. The corner of his note could be seen protruding from beneath the fountain basin within half an hour of our meeting.
I will be behind the greenery tomorrow evening. I must speak with you. Yours, James
.

I had my evidence and my trap was set, I thought, as I ran to my room with my hard-won prize. By the tradesmen’s entrance I ran into Perkins, my little messenger. I had not had time to examine James’s note yet, but I was confident enough to call in Cartwright.

“I have a message for you,” I told him in a breathless whisper. “Tell Mr. Cartwright to come to Hartfield tomorrow afternoon. I have something to show him.”

It was a lovely moment for me. Perkins had caught some of my enthusiasm, and he congratulated me, respect and admiration shining in his widened eyes. Then he fled, and I realized, too late, that in my excitement I had forgotten a portion of my message. I would have to find him in the morning and tell him.

Ten minutes later, I was crouching in the servants’ quarters with my two clues: the envelope from Lady Rose’s letter and James’s note to me. James had dictated Lady Rose’s farewell message, I was sure of it, and then mailed it to Hartfield. Now I could identify James as the writer of the envelope by comparing the two scripts. They have to match, I muttered to myself, as I passed the candle from one to the other. They
have
to.

I stared at the scribbles until my eyes went dim, turning them sideways and upside down in my frustration. Then I slipped the papers under my mattress and dropped face-first onto my pillow. I had been so certain, so absolutely certain that I had already crowed my victory to Perkins and he would pass it along to Cartwright. But there was no doubt about it.

The writing did not match.