Secret Letters Read online

  Still, it should have been no surprise to me that he was handsome, for valets were kept in only the richest households and, like footmen, were frequently chosen for their looks and height. His duties would have been quite specific in that household, requiring more patience and devotion than intellect. Thanks to his valet, Lord Victor’s bootlaces were carefully ironed, his newspaper scented, his slippers always placed at the appropriate distance from the fire. When the pair would go hunting, the young lord’s leather breeches would be expertly powdered and his rifle loaded so that he always appeared to advantage in front of the ladies. It was not a difficult post, but a stifling one to any man with brains or ambition. As I watched him, I wondered how he could bear his lot, if he was indeed as intelligent as Agatha had claimed.

  Lord Victor was no less handsome than his servant, but he was as dark as James was fair. The earl’s son glanced briefly in my direction, and I forgot for a moment that I was a scullery maid and returned his look. His raised eyebrows brought me back to my senses, and I stepped backward into the shadow and dropped my head. I was supposed to be an objective and quiet observer, a timid under-maid, I reminded myself, not a debutante at a ball. It would have been easier if Lord Victor’s eyes had not been so very black and he had looked a little less like a pirate captain.

  It was a frustrating meal for me. No one said anything suspicious at all. In fact, there was almost no conversation between the lord and lady, and the son ate quietly, staring in front of him in distracted silence. James carefully avoided Agatha’s eye, and I watched her shrink slowly against the wall in helpless disappointment. And standing there like a mute and rumpled statue, I could not do anything to comfort her.

  After the noble family had finished the meal, they departed, and Agatha and I were joined by a stream of servants. While we cleared the table, I encouraged the other girls to chatter about the masters of the estate. It did not take much for the gossip to start flowing. Everyone seemed anxious to bring me up to date on all the happenings and on their theories regarding Lady Rose’s rapid trip to an aunt in Brighton.

  “If you ask me,” declared Agatha, “I think Her Ladyship is hiding something, for all the brave smiles she puts on for us. If Lady Rose was going off to a trip, why was it so secret-like, in the middle of the night, with her maid left behind? Young miss is in some kind of trouble, and her mother knows it. They’re covering something up, you mark my words.”

  Flora, a pretty, rosy-cheeked scullery maid, snorted and arched a sarcastic eyebrow. “Tell us more about this here trouble, Aggie. What kind are you meanin’ exactly? Indigestion, do you suppose? Perhaps she got her ‘indigestion’ from you? I suppose you could be very helpful to her, and teach her all about lady’s indigestion.”

  Agatha winced under her malicious smirk and seemed to cower before us. The other servant girls giggled and exchanged meaningful glances over their brooms. Encouraged by her reception and by the prospect of humbling her social superior, Flora continued her assault. “I’ve heard tell by the midwives that ‘indigestion’ can lead to horrible things. Your feet swells up, and then your belly and even your bosom”—she wagged her own for emphasis—“and before you know it, you’re walkin’ down Old Kent Road with your hair hangin’ down and your skirts pulled up over your ankles, asking the drunken touts if they’re looking for a friend for a night.” The tittering was more pronounced now, and several of the younger girls had dropped their tasks altogether to stand in judgment, hands on hips, before their victim.

  “You know what I heard?” interjected a spindly red-faced little maid named Lydia. “That indigestion is caused by eating too much food from the valet’s trays.” Her joke brought fresh cackles of laughter. But Flora was not to be outdone. “I always say, ring first”—she waved her bare fingers in front of Agatha’s miserable eyes—“and crumpets later.”

  The girl visibly shrank before them, and one hand slid in an unconscious, defensive motion over her belly. I could not bear to watch Agatha’s suffering, and I cast about for some fresh bait to toss to the sharks.

  “I got a little indigestion myself this mornin’,” I ventured, with a silly giggle, “when I caught a look of the young master. Perhaps it is catching.” Their reaction was just what I had hoped for. Several of the upper-maids raised their arms in mock dismay, and Flora screamed with laughter. From the corner, Agatha sent me a pathetic look of gratitude.

  “Aye, there’s a man after my heart,” Flora sighed, pursing her full lips. “He don’t waste himself on just anyone.”

  “You’ve seen him already, then?” inquired Ellen, a little stillroom maid. “That dark hair and those black eyes that look straight through you.” She shivered as if she enjoyed being “looked through.”

  “That’s it exactly, isn’t it, girls?” Flora put in, in a wounded tone. “Lord Victor never really looks at anyone, does he? He’ll smile and brush your cheek as pretty as you please, but it’s all honey without anything beneath. We’ve nothing to complain about from him.”

  I got the feeling that Flora wished she had something to complain about. Indeed, all of the young maids looked wistful and disappointed, as if recognition from their handsome master was something they all wished for.

  “I think maybe he’s lonely,” mused Ellen, rubbing her cheek absentmindedly. “For all his charm and good looks, he don’t have friends, really.”

  “He’s got a temper on him, Ellen,” remarked Judith, an older housemaid, who had been listening to the conversation with a superior frown on her face. “He scared off the one friend he had, remember? That gray-haired squire from Lambley, Mark Fellows? They were close as wax for months, though there was twenty years between them in age at least. Then one day, the man was gone. Left his family, his friends, without a word. Our young lord was never the same, I tell you.”

  “That’s not what I meant, Judith. I just think he needs a good woman, is all,” replied Ellen, checking her reflection in a silver spoon.

  “Aye, Cinderella, perhaps you ought to drop some more napkins on the floor when he’s about. I don’t think he noticed your rump the first ten times!” The girls whinnied with delight as Flora bent over in a mocking, exaggerated demonstration and shook her bottom in the air.

  “But what of Lady Jane?” I suggested when they had quieted a little. “He must love his fiancée.” My ignorant remark set off fresh hoots of laughter.

  “Lady Jane indeed! That biddy! He cares more for his hunting dogs than he does for her. I heard he refused to marry her at first. But his father’s estate was in such a way, and the young master’s debts didn’t help. And then there was poor Lady Rose, and her miserable first Season. There’s no telling if they’ll ever get her married off. In the end, I suppose Lady Jane’s lovely dowry made her look a little more attractive after all. But he is not happy over it.”

  “Does Lady Jane know?”

  Agatha gave me a lofty look. She had obviously recovered from the teasing and was now happy to rejoin the gossip, as long as she was no longer the subject of it. “Lady Jane is so thankful to finally hook a husband that she’s screwed her eyes shut for good. Not that they’d do her any good open, that stupid cow. Even her mother knows that it isn’t a love match, though she’s been preening herself over her daughter’s conquest. I tell you, when Lady Jane finally realizes what her charming fiancé thinks of her, she will bust her corset!”

  The remainder of the conversation consisted mainly of imitations of ripping fabric and cow bellowing.

  AT THE FIRST opportunity I stole away from the cackling girls and hurried down to the toolshed behind the stables where my little messenger was scheduled to wait. I had yet to officially meet him; my first afternoon on the assignment had been too busy to send messages. This evening, however, I had written the following letter to Cartwright:

  Dear Detective (or the closest thing to one),

  My beginning as an investigator has gone better than I could have hoped. My suspicions about James are all but confirmed. According to one
of the servants, he acted strangely the day before Lady Rose’s disappearance; I am certain he knows where she is.

  I am encouraging all the servants to gossip about the family, but so far I have only learned that every young maid here is pining for either Lord Victor or for his valet, both of whom are really very handsome.

  I keep wondering what my cousin would think if she could see me now, elbow deep in ashes and grease, with coal dust in my hair. I hope you are sending her reassuring messages about my well-being. I hate to think that she is worried about me. There is no reason to be concerned; I am muddling through my tasks well enough to keep my fellow servants from becoming too suspicious. I feel that I was meant to be doing this—the investigating, that is, not the floor scrubbing.

  I hope that by tomorrow I shall have more news for you. At this rate, perhaps I’ll not need your assistance in the end.

  Yours,

  Dora Joyce

  It was hardly the brilliant message that I had hoped to send; on close examination there was really only one bit of new information in my letter. Still, I hoped it would distract Mr. Cartwright for a little while I continued my investigation.

  I found young Perkins sitting cross-legged by the “meeting” rock, gazing intently at the manor house. As I approached, he leapt quickly to his feet, doffed his cap, and stood rigidly at attention, one small hand extended. He was a sweet-faced little fellow, fair-skinned and freckled, with large hazel eyes and auburn curls. Cartwright had indicated that the boy was near fourteen, but to me he looked no more than twelve. I smiled at his formal posture and urged him to be seated.

  “You must be Perkins,” I said. “Mr. Cartwright has hired you to be my messenger.”

  The boy nodded briskly and put his hand out a little farther. “Oh, he didn’t hire me, miss. But I’ll be here every morning and every evening like he asked. We’re old friends, you see, and I’m happy to do this favor for him.”

  “Have you known him long, then?”

  “About three years. We started together at the express office, and we used to see quite a bit of each other before he went to work for Mr. Porter.”

  “And you’re fond of him?”

  He nodded. “Well, I miss him now he’s gone. He’s always been straight with me and stood up for me. So I’m straight with him.”

  “He’s defended you against the older children?”

  The child grinned proudly and relaxed his posture slightly. “Oh, yes, miss. He’s no chicken, I can tell you that much. A couple of the other boys learned that right quick.”

  “Oh, did they? I wish I’d been there! Quite a show, was it?”

  I had clearly hit on a favorite topic, for the boy now pushed his shoulders back and puffed his chest out in happy recollection. “Oh, he fairly took us by surprise, he did. He was such a curious fellow, you see. Barely spoke to us at first, lurked about in corners, reading newspapers, piles of books, anything he could get his hands on. I think I was his only friend, and even I couldn’t say I really knew him. He was a great worker and all that, and the boss had even talked about promoting him to clerk or operator, for he could take dictation by ear after only two months on the job. But he didn’t seem to care for anything. And he was so sad, too, all the time. Those first few months I think I only saw him smile once, and that was after he had beaten Drummond’s face into a mess.”

  I wondered for a moment if we were talking about the same young man. I had never seen Cartwright without laughter on his lips, and as for violence, I simply could not picture it.

  “What had this Drummond fellow done to him?”

  “Oh, no one blamed Cartwright afterward. That bully had had it coming to him for months. But I could not believe it. After everything that boy had said to him, after all the teasing and the torture, it was such a little, little thing that did it.”

  “What was it?”

  Perkins scratched his cheek thoughtfully and sighed. “Well, you know Mr. Cartwright pretty well, I think, so you must remember how miserable he used to be?”

  I nodded shortly. There was no need to tell this boy that I had only met his friend that week. His story was becoming more interesting by the minute, and I did not want my little fountain of information to dry up. “Of course, Perkins, I remember very well. Go on.”

  “Well, Drummond found him in the supply closet one afternoon, hunched over by the ink bottles. Lots of us boys used that room for sneaking cigarettes or catching little naps between message runs. Well, Drummond had—pictures he wanted to show the rest of us. Prints, you know. At first we didn’t even see poor Cartwright in the corner, ’cause it was awful dark in there. It wasn’t until I lit the lantern that we realized he was there, and then it was too late for him to hide himself. I think he had been crying, miss, for his eyes were all red and swollen. I felt sorry for him, honestly. But for Drummond it was like he had won the lottery.”

  “What did he say to him?”

  “Oh, the usual. Called him a baby, made little sucking noises with his lips, the sort of thing that you’d expect.”

  “And Mr. Cartwright hit him for it?”

  “No. That was what was curious. He said nothing, not a word, just started to walk away from us. There didn’t to seem to be any life in him at all. It made Drummond fairly desperate, of course, because he was looking for a rise. So he made the stupidest little joke, blurted out one desperate last shot.”

  “What was the joke?”

  The boy’s brow furrowed in concentration, and he crossed his arms. “He called out, ‘Eh, chicken! Where you going? Running to your sister so she can rescue you?’ It was so silly, you see, the kinda thing dumb boys say to one another all the time. So none of us could understand why it turned Cartwright stark raving mad like that.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He turned on that boy so quick that Drummond never had a chance. It took the five of us to pull him off. I never saw such a face, I’ll tell you that, and I’ve been in a few good fights myself.”

  “That sounds awful. I suppose he must be very sensitive about his sister.”

  Perkins shook his head and laughed. “He doesn’t have a sister, nor brothers neither. I asked him about his family when we first met and he told me so. He’s an orphan, I think, and he was living with an uncle then. That’s all I know, at any rate. He never spoke about his family to you?”

  I shook my head. “He’s rather private, isn’t he? I never dared to ask him.”

  Perkins’s face clouded over and he ducked his head in sudden shame. “Oh, I suppose I’ve said too much again. Cartwright says I need to mind my tongue. You needn’t tell him that I told you all of this. I’ll just take the message, then, as I shoulda done before.”

  I slipped the note to him, and he pulled a letter from Adelaide from his cap and handed it to me. “Good day, miss.”

  “Oh, Perkins, before you go—”

  “Yes, miss?”

  “I was wondering—that scar on Mr. Cartwright’s neck. Do you have any idea how he got it?”

  The boy shrugged and pursed his lips. “The cross? Nah, he’s had that ever since I’ve known him. I wouldn’t ask him about that if I were you. I made a comment ’bout it once and he looked red murder at me.”

  THE HOUSEKEEPER was waiting with her hands on her hips when I returned, tapping her foot next to a full coal scuttle. Luckily, before she could ask where I had been, the butler came in with urgent news about a broken vase that she needed to attend to. I grabbed the heavy scuttle and hauled it upstairs, unloaded half the coal into the dining room fireplace, and then proceeded to the drawing room.

  A little of the dust had floated onto one of the brightly upholstered pink divans by the pianoforte, and as I swept it up, I studied the gold-framed portraits of the Dowling family on the wall above me. The largest painting showed the earl and his second wife in formal wear, staring proudly into the distance. Nearer the harp in the corner hung a portrait of Lady Rose, which showed her leaning forward against a column, dressed in
a flowing Roman gown, a harp balanced on her hip. She was a beautiful girl, pink-complexioned and full figured, with large, heavy-lidded green eyes and a sweet pout on her lips. She appeared graceful and innocent among the flowers; the artist had erased the awkwardness which had troubled her parents. On the opposite wall, Lord Victor’s picture presented a vivid contrast to his sister’s smiling one. Shown with one hand holding a horse’s reins and the other a hunting rifle, the young lord’s confident pose was true to its owner’s real image. Judging by what I had heard so far, the brother’s and sister’s charms were equal only in their portraits.

  I was gathering up my brush and scuttle when the red baize door suddenly swung open, and Flora entered, bearing a basket of rags and a heavy broom. She did not see me standing in the corner, and I was about to greet her when the sound of a familiar voice stopped me.

  A tall, roughly dressed workman was standing behind her, his shoulder against the doorpost, his arms crossed across his chest. He grinned broadly, clicked his tongue, and murmured something that made the girl drop her basket and giggle. I shrank slowly behind the pianoforte and watched, barely breathing, as Peter Cartwright sauntered into the room, swinging a workman’s cap. He saw me, of course, and winked while her back was turned, then directed his attention to the maid, who was abstractedly brushing a rag over an already spotless table.

  “Now, sir,” she protested, as he circled her. “We’re expecting a houseful of guests tomorrow, and I’m already late on the sweepin’ and dustin’ that I were supposed to have done this morning before breakfast. You’ll be causin’ me to get my notice, sir, and me with my poor mum to support.”