by Y. S. Lee
Sadie turned and subjected her to a cool, full-length appraisal. “You’re bonny enough. Got spindle shanks, though. Men like a bit of meat on a girl’s bones.” She shimmied her own ample curves suggestively. “Something to hold on to. Though it don’t seem to have hurt you any.”
Mary spooned some boiled turnips onto her plate and thought about the envelope in her pocket. “I don’t think it means much. The valentine, I mean.”
It was a long lunch, dominated by conversation about who got what and what it might mean — not unlike a schoolroom full of twelve-year-old girls, thought Mary. It was rather more difficult to interpret the significance of her own unwanted valentine. When it had traveled the length of the table and back, Mary stuffed it back into its envelope and laid it on the chair behind her. She tried to catch Amy’s gaze, but the girl’s eyes were fixed on the tablecloth, her mouth a grim line: clearly, Octavius Jones’s valentine hadn’t met her expectations. And then, suddenly, it was so patently obvious that she jumped slightly.
Sadie glanced at her, only half interested. “What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing.” Mary took a deep drink of Mrs. Shaw’s excellent cider — another palace luxury. Then she joined in with the cheerful, idle conversation all around her. One of her difficulties, at least, was within her power to address.
After dinner, there was an hour’s respite before her afternoon duties began, and Mary slipped up to her bedroom. She wanted a little privacy to read this second letter — the one the others hadn’t noticed in their excitement over the splendid valentine. But when she arrived, Amy was already sprawled belly down on her bed, face turned toward the wall. Mary stifled a sigh as she saw Amy’s crumpled valentine on the blanket. As she stood there, wondering how on earth to begin a conversation, Amy turned a wet, tear-stained face toward her.
“You didn’t even look pleased to get that blooming great valentine.”
“I’m not. I don’t even know who it’s from, and that makes me nervous.”
Amy lifted her head at that. “Nervous? You should be bloody over the moon!”
Mary shrugged. “What if it’s a prank of some sort?”
“A pretty expensive prank! No, I reckon whoever sent that really meant it.”
Privately, Mary agreed — but not the way Amy thought. “Are you all right, though? You seem disappointed.”
Amy sniffed, scrambled to a sitting position, and flicked her crumpled valentine onto the floor. “You’d be, too, if that’s all you got from your stupid gentleman admirer.”
Mary looked at it. “May I . . . ?”
“’Course. It ain’t special.”
Mary picked up the card and smoothed it. “It’s pretty.” It was, too — fine paper with a picture of red roses, and real lace glued round the edges. But it lacked the showstopping garishness of Mary’s.
“It ain’t the card what bothers me — just read it!”
Mary obeyed. “‘To my darling Amy — Happy Saint Valentine’s Day, my sweet girl. Very affectionately yours, Tavvy.’”
“‘Very affectionately!’” howled Amy, suddenly furious. “It ain’t much, is it?”
“Well, it’s nice. . . .”
“I don’t want nice! I don’t want pretty! I want a bloody wedding ring on my finger!” Amy yelled this last sentence so loudly that the window rattled.
Mary considered her irate roommate. Pity was certainly out of the question. “Well . . . what will you do, then? D’you still want my help?”
Amy stared at her for several long moments in outright astonishment. Then, to Mary’s relief, she snorted. And flashed her a determined grin. “Yeah. He ain’t getting away that easy.”
“Did you send him a note this morning?”
“Of course!”
“Right. Then where’s that spare uniform you mentioned last night?”
Less than a quarter of an hour later, Mary was in the servants’ courtyard, keeping an eye out for one of the people she most detested. She spotted him idling along, hands in pockets, hat tipped back at a disreputable angle. She took a deep breath. She’d not be bested this time.
“My dear Miss Quinn,” he trilled, sweeping her an extravagant bow. “Such a pleasure to meet you like this, at this hour. And by appointment!” She opened her mouth to speak, but he swept on. “I’ve so many questions for you, my dear girl. Still digging away in the trenches of truth?”
“You know very well I’m researching the lives of the working poor.”
“So you claimed the last time we met. Yet you’re not entirely devoid of sense: surely you’ve given up such a weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable little notion.”
“I fear not, Mr. Jones.” Especially as she hoped to continue the ruse with James, too. “My investigations are coming along splendidly. But I’m not here to discuss that.”
“Tell me something delightful, then.”
She inclined her head very slightly. “I received your card.”
He feigned innocence. “I beg your pardon?”
“The very large and expensive valentine you sent, signing yourself a ‘secret admirer.’”
“Did you? And if so, what makes you think it was I who sent it? I’m Miss Tranter’s beau, not yours.”
“You’re the only gentleman I know with the taste and budget for such a valentine.”
His smile seemed to escape against his will. “The truth will out, it seems.”
“Sometimes it does,” she said, unsmiling. “I’ve something for you.” She pushed the bundle into his hands.
“My! A personal token of your affection? I’d no idea my little valentine would be so effective. . . .”
“From Amy. It’s a maid’s uniform in your size. At ten o’clock tonight, you’re to enter the servants’ courtyard in costume. I’ll see you safely indoors.”
Jones’s reaction was wonderful to behold. Surprise, comprehension, deep embarrassment, confusion — all paraded across his face in what Mary thought might be the only sincere response she’d ever seen from him. Completely at a loss, he finally looked at Mary. “Was this Amy’s idea?”
“Certainly,” snapped Mary. “Nothing else would induce me to play the bawd for the likes of you.”
“In which case, I’m honored,” he said, trying for insouciance.
“See that you’re on time.” She made as if to leave, then paused. “And Jones.” He blinked at her, still off balance. “If you do or say anything to jeopardize my research — anything that draws attention to me, like that piece of childish nonsense with the valentine — I’ll tell all. Possibly while you’re still wearing petticoats.” And with that, she stepped smartly round him and continued on her way.
The nearest post office was on Old Cavendish Street, roughly a mile away by the most direct route. She’d thought hard about the risks of using it as her poste restante address. The General Post Office in central London was so much larger and offered a real chance at anonymity. But today, she was glad of her choice: it was unreasonable to expect Amy to shield her absence for too long.
In this sleepy lull before teatime, there were few ladies or gentlemen in the streets. It was too late for a morning ride, a shade too early for afternoon calls. And yet the streets hummed with butchers’ and bakers’ boys delivering their wares, fully laden drays making deliveries. The town felt astoundingly open and anonymous after the constant confinement of palace life. Mary walked on, a little giddy with her temporary freedom. Such illusions promptly vanished as she crossed Oxford Street, its glass-and-brass-fronted shops gleaming valiantly through the fog. Just beyond this glamour lay yet another test of her identity, the very idea of which made her stomach churn.
Old Cavendish Street was quiet, a back lane for the hectic shopping thoroughfare of Oxford Street. She passed a gentleman in a fur-collared overcoat who goggled at her unabashedly, despite her repressive frown. She was too well dressed to be an ordinary working woman, who could stroll about unaccompanied, yet she hadn’t a companion or a maid in tow. In the post o
ffice, though, her presence excited no comments or stares from either staff or customers, many of whom also looked like respectable domestic servants.
“Poste restante?” said the yawning clerk when she reached the front of the queue. “What did you say the name was again?”
“Lawrence,” she said clearly. “Miss Mary Lawrence.” She’d chosen a false name that used the initials of her birth name, Mary Lang. Impossible, however, to hope that they held any significance for Lang Jin Hai. Not after all these years.
He swung down from his stool and ambled to a filing cabinet, taking his time rifling through the envelopes within, yawning all the while. Mary saw a future dependent upon this anonymous clerk’s alertness and intelligence, and despaired. At least his lips didn’t move as he read. At length, he returned to the window, empty-handed. “Nothing under that name, miss.”
“It’s very important,” she said, trying to control the tremor in her voice. “Please, could you look again?”
He scowled and looked at her — really looked at her, for the first time. Something in her expression made him pause. After a moment, he sighed. “All right. Not that it’ll do any good.”
Privately, Mary agreed. Nevertheless, she watched him retreat to the filing cabinet with gratitude. This might be the one thing of which she could be certain. He performed the second search with exaggerated care, pulling out the occasional envelope and squinting at it in a pantomime of reading. One. Two. After a tantalizing pause, a third. Just as he was about to stuff it back into the drawer, however, the clerk paused. Frowned. Brought the envelope closer to his nose.
Mary shook her head, angered by this ridiculous bit of playacting. Even as she scowled, however, the clerk returned to his stool with an expression of slight embarrassment mingled with avid curiosity. He stared at her. “Bit irregular, this one, but it might be yours, miss.”
Mary tried not to snatch the envelope from his grasp — the same envelope, she realized, that she’d posted the previous night. Her careful address — Mr. J. H. Lang, care of HM Tower of London, Tower Hill, The City — had been scratched out. On top, in crude letters, was written, Miss M. Lawrence, Charing X post office. “Yes, that’s it,” she said in the calmest voice she could manage. “Thank you.”
“Irregular, that, miss,” said the clerk again. “The address isn’t as clear as it should be. It ought to say, ‘To be called for.’”
She nodded, scarcely hearing his words. “I see.”
“I’ll need to see some proof of your identity, miss.”
She fumbled in her handbag and pushed a forged letter across the counter — a testimonial of character from Mrs. J. G. F. Spencer of Muswell Hill, for her paid companion, Mary Lawrence. “It’s all I’ve got,” she explained humbly. “I’ve no passport, you see.”
The clerk skimmed the letter, and Mary hoped he noticed the elements she’d incorporated: the good but not lavish notepaper; the slightly cramped penmanship of an older, respectable lady; the well-worn creases of a much-produced “character.” Eventually, he nodded and gave it back to her. “That’s all right, miss. That’s twopence, then, for the postage.”
She paid and fled.
The city streets were far too public for her to stop and examine her letter. That didn’t prevent her from turning it over and over in her mind, however, until she reached the parks. The fact that she’d received any sort of reply meant that Lang — or someone else — had opened the letter and found her false name and poste restante address. Yet the omens were otherwise bad: the sloppy address and the reuse of her old envelope suggested not only that Lang was uninterested in outside help but also that he wanted actively to repudiate it. If he were apathetic, he’d simply have made no reply — that was the result she’d expected. But this pointed rejection complicated matters.
In the peace and relative quiet of St. James’s Park, Mary stared at the fateful envelope. As a child, she’d often dreamed of being found by her father — a kind, affectionate man she’d elevated, over the years, into a model of wisdom and noble sacrifice. She’d imagined his daring escape from a band of pirates or his heroic return from a secret mission for the Crown, after all hope was gone. Lang Jin Hai would leave no stone unturned searching for his beloved and only child. Their reunion would be the stuff of children’s fairy tales, of serial novels, of dreams.
Her lips twisted. And so it was. If indeed this man was her father, he’d succeeded in undoing every fantasy she’d ever cherished: she’d first heard his name implicated in violence and scandal. She’d made the effort to seek him out. And now he wanted nothing to do with her. A tear rolled down her cheek, and she dashed it away, suddenly furious. Why was she being so passive, waiting for a paternal white knight to ride in and save her? Whether her father was a murderer or not, an opium addict or no, the one thing he’d bequeathed her was the habit of fending for herself. It was her only legacy.
She tore open the envelope. It was precisely as she’d thought, no worse: her original letter had been torn in half. It was the clearest possible message that her attention was unwanted. And that was fine. She was interested not only in helping Lang Jin Hai but also in laying to rest questions from her own past. And for that, she did not require this man’s blessing. She would present herself to him, uninvited, and ascertain whether or not he was her father.
If he wasn’t, she could once more assume that her father was dead. If he was her father, she could ask what had become of him. And if he was hanged for murder, her father would again be dead. There was a lunatic logic at work there. Her eyes were dry as she tore the letter to shreds, and then into dozens of tiny pieces, and pushed them into her pocket.
As she did so, her fingers rediscovered her other mysterious letter — the one lurking beneath the valentine at the dinner hour. She’d quite forgotten but now drew it out hastily. It was about time she heard from the Agency. However, the handwriting on the envelope was neither Anne’s nor Felicity’s. Not even close. And yet it was familiar. Even as her eyes traced the first M, the flashing Q, she felt that painful double thump of her heart once more, a tangle of elation and caution. She traced her fingertip along the letter’s corners. Perhaps she’d mistaken the handwriting. Yet she knew that thought, too, was merely a rationalization. And such fear was foolish: after the way they’d last parted, what was another confirmation of James’s disdain? Nothing could be worse than how she now felt. She tore it open swiftly, without ceremony.
My dearest Mary,
Both my words and my conduct at our last meeting were ungentlemanly — born of haste and high emotion rather than friendship and good judgment — and yet I cannot find it within me to apologize. I am glad I kissed you; glad to have reveled in your scent, your taste, the touch of your hands; glad, even, to have quarreled with you, because during those moments of anger, I was in your presence.
Mary, you are the most singular woman I know: intelligent, brave, and honest, and I crave your friendship. I confess to only the haziest notion of what I ask, having never been friends with a woman before. My friendships are male and conventional, pleasant and without distinction. But a friendship with you would be a bright, new, rare thing — if you would do me the honor.
I expect that what I ask is impossible. But it is sweet to dream, Mary, and thus I tender one last, insolent, unapologetic request: write to me only if you can say yes.
Yours,
James
Mary read the letter three times, fingers shaking as she held the page. He reveled, craved, dreamed — words she’d never dare imagine in connection with James. Yet even as she floated in the sheer delight of being thus addressed, frustration seeped in. Came to dominate.
It was a beautiful, maddening, flattering, insulting little epistle. No apology — utterly James-like. A vast request, airily phrased — ditto. And most important, no mention whatsoever of that damned girl in the blue dress. Even so, she couldn’t help melting, and that was perhaps the worst part. Was she so susceptible, so utterly without pride, that she’d g
o charging back to him whenever he crooked his finger? She could sit still no longer. As she walked back toward the palace, she forced herself to think about, rather than feel, her response.
She ought to tear up the letter and forget all about it.
Impossible.
She ought to send it back to him, as Lang Jin Hai had done with hers.
She’d broken the seal.
She could pretend she’d never received it.
But how would she let him know? If he heard nothing, James would assume that she was too hurt, too fragile, to contact him again. Damn and blast his apparently boundless egotism.
And yet — she’d thought just the previous night of contacting him. She needed his expertise, or at least his collection of sewer maps. And for the first time since she’d left the palace, something like a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. So she could. Just as she’d seen off Octavius Jones — just as she would resolve the question of her relation to Lang Jin Hai — she’d settle another overconfident male.
She walked back toward the palace, sprinkling the paper fragments of her father’s rejection into the shallow lake. They floated at first, then slowly became sodden and sank beneath its murky surface.
And that, too, was entirely apt.
Although the usual needs of the royal family consumed the rest of her working day, Mary found time to scribble and post a short note she’d composed while serving afternoon tea. She wanted it to be brief but also to encompass cool indifference, taunting ambiguity, and a degree of callousness, all encompassed by a businesslike tone. After much thought, she wrote:
Dear James,
I hope this note is not entirely offensive to you after our last conversation, parts of which I sincerely regret. Recently, I came upon some information about the palace sewers that may interest you in your professional capacity. Are you free to meet this evening? I shall be unengaged at any time after eleven o’clock.