Very Truly Yours

by Julie Beard

  "Why, thank you, Mr. Honeycut," Jack said dryly.

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  "You may call me Mr. Fairchild. This is my secretary, Clayton Harding."

  "Mr. Harding to you. Come, come, young man," Harding tutted, "is this how you always look when you come to your place of employment?"

  Giles rubbed his loose, tawny locks of uncombed hair and grinned. "Most of the time, I daresay."

  "In that case," Jack said, "your services will no longer be needed. Thank you, Mr. Honeycut. You may go now."

  Jack turned and headed toward the back offices.

  "I said you could address me as Giles," the young man called after him, not in the least alarmed. He rose and tugged up his breeches. "Excuse me, sir. Oh, Mr. Fair-child!"

  Jack stopped and turned with a cool smile. "Yes, Mr. H6neycut?"

  "I'll go if you want me to, but I must warn you that you won't do well without me."

  Jack's features lit with amusement. "Quite confident in your abilities, are you, Mr. Honeycut?"

  "Giles! Please call me Giles. I am rather confident, you might say, sir. I grew up here, you see, and I know where all the business is. I know, for example, that the butcher wants to look into changing his deed. Old Widow Farnsworth wants to change her will to cut out her ramshackle son. And Farmer Plowright is planning to sue his landlord."

  "I see." Jack crossed an arm over his chest, rested his other elbow on it, and stroked his clean-shaven, sculpted cheeks. "Are you trying to bribe me into keeping you, Mr. Honeycut? I suppose if you are, then we should be on more intimate terms. Giles, are you trying to blackmail me?"

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  The clerk's earnest-looking features wilted. "Oh, no, sir! I wouldn't think of such a thing. I'm simply trying to make you understand my value as an employee."

  "I see. Well, certainly your assets are evident. But to own the truth, Giles, I could have found out about these clients myself, as I intend to do."

  "Yes, sir, but again I have the advantage there."

  "How?" Harding barked impatiently.

  "You see, the butcher is my cousin once removed, old Widow Farnsworth is my aunt, and Farmer Plowright is my mother's mother's cousin's uncle. He remembers me every Christmas."

  When Giles ended this litany with an innocent smile, Jack exchanged a significant look with his secretary. "Well, Harding, I think we're cornered."

  "Yes, sir," the secretary replied, biting the words through clenched teeth. He was very protective of his employer and didn't like even the hint of a swindle, especially not in their own camp. "But I'll not work with a sight such as this. Go home and clean up, young man. You're an embarrassment to your profession."

  Giles shrugged nonchalantly and started for the door. "Mind if I stop by the tavern for a pint or two on my way back?"

  "Yes, as a matter of fact, I do," Jack replied. "When you return, if you're not half-sprung, we'll discuss the terms of your employment. I'll continue your compensation at the same rate as Mr. Pedigrew. If you have any aunts or cousins who engage my services, there will be a nice raise in it for you."

  "My relatives will most certainly engage your services, but I can assure you they won't pay their bills."

  "They won't pay their bills?" Harding asked, scratching

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  his bald spot. "Then what good are they to Mr. Fairchild?"

  "A man's got to keep busy, doesn't he? It wouldn't do for Mr. Fairchild to sit around with nothing to do. Why, I hear in London that barristers hang about the courts trying to look busy hoping a solicitor will think they're in demand and hire them on to argue a case. Now, in your situation, sir, Mr. Cranshaw is the man you want to impress," Giles continued, oblivious to the secretary's gaping mouth and reddening cheeks. "He's the client you're looking for."

  Jack's chiseled lips twitched with a mirthless grin. "A relative of yours?"

  "No. How I wish!"

  Jack let out a soundless laugh and thrust his hands on his hips. "I believe I've been roasted by my own clerk, Harding."

  The balding secretary nodded in agreement as he began to sort the mound of papers scattered on the front desk. It was either that or strangle the young clerk.

  "Mark my word, Mr. Fairchild," Giles said, "Mr. Cranshaw is the man you want."

  "I vaguely remember my grandfather mentioning the family. Is this the Cranshaw who has made such a fortune in the wool trade?"

  "Among other things. You'll thank me plenty when you arrange a meeting."

  "And how will I do that?"

  "Through your cousin, Mr. Paley."

  Jack crossed his arms again, this time with a smile of admiration. "You do have intelligence about everyone in this town, don't you?"

  "Your cousin is Mr. Cranshaw's glover," Giles continued, ambling his way toward the door. "Mr. Cranshaw

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  keeps nis wife and girls in the finest gloves. Mr. Paley has invited you to dinner tonight."

  Harding looked up with proprietary interest. "I handle all of Mr. Fan-child's appointments, young man. Mind you tend to your own bailiwick."

  "The invitation is there on the desk," Giles explained. "See for yourself. But if I were you, Mr. Fairchild, I'd arrange to have Mr. Paley give you a letter of introduction to Mr. Cranshaw."

  "Just how wealthy is Mr. Cranshaw?"

  Giles winked. "He has more money than God, sir. And he's a right proper gentleman with two daughters who are pure as the driven snow."

  "Are they married?" Jack asked, careful not to sound too interested.

  Giles shook his head. "No, but one's near engaged, I hear. The old man has mills and sheep all over the country. He lives on top of the hill."

  Giles opened the door to the glorious morning and pointed to a stately, gleaming mansion that stood like a golden sentinel on a hill overlooking the town. Jack followed him and looked closely. At the sight of the enormous house, his pulse quickened. Birds were singing, and for once they sounded like harbingers of great fortune. Jack returned to Harding's side with a smile.

  "Yes, Harding, this was a very good move indeed. Leave the door open, Giles, we need fresh air in here. Country-fresh air!"

  "Very well, then, I'll be on my way." Giles took off without further ado, clearly a man of his own leisurely destiny.

  Jack frowned after him, then realized he couldn't expect country folk to hold to the same manners or fast pace

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  that he'd grown accustomed to in London. Life was slower here. Work would get done in its own time. And if all of Giles's relatives couldn't pay their bills, at least this Mr. Cranshaw would, and handsomely.

  Still, Jack glanced down disapprovingly at the clerk's cluttered desk and noticed a stack of mail nearly a foot high.

  "What in bloody hell does Giles Honeycut do around here? Giles!" he called out and jogged to the door, shouting after him. "Giles! What is this mail doing here?"

  The clerk, who had his hand on the tavern door, returned without so much as a sheepish grin. He sauntered back to Jack's side. "What's that, sir?"

  "Surely Mr. Pedigrew isn't still receiving letters here. What is all that mail doing on your desk?"

  They went inside to survey the clutter of sealed letters.

  "This is where the post comes," Giles explained. "A fellow named Jenkins from Waverly brings it in for the Royal Mail. Jenkins is a postboy of sorts. A drunken sot, really. You see, Middledale is too far off the beaten path for the Royal Mail coach. So Henry ferries letters to and from Waverly, earning what money he can in tips from grateful customers. Your job, sir, is to collect the postal fees for each letter that comes in and make sure Henry transports them to the Royal Mail guard. Now and then Henry runs off with the money and drinks himself into a stupor. Then you have to settle up with the guard out of your own pocket."

  "Over my expired corpse," Harding said, dropping the stack of mail back on the desk with a thump. "Mr. Fair-child will not cover anyone's incompetence in such a fashion."

  Giles shrugged. "It doesn't happen often,
sir, and Henry

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  is worth his considerable weight in gold. It was worth the trouble to Mr. Pedigrew to make sure the mail came here, what with all his dispatches to London. Waverly is quite a ways away, and you'd have to make the trip yourself every time you wanted to post a letter. Jenkins makes just enough to quench his thirst and feed his nag."

  Harding glowered at the clerk.

  "His rickety old beast of burden is on her last legs, sir."

  Jack deftly placed his hand on Giles's angular shoulder. "If Jenkins brings the mail here, that must mean everyone in town will be stopping by regularly."

  "Everyone but Mr. Cranshaw. He can afford to send his servants to Waverly. Likes his privacy."

  Jack grinned cunningly. "That means I'll get to know everyone in town quickly. All the better for business. Thank you, Giles."

  Giles made a quick exit, and while Harding grumbled in his wake, Jack wandered back through the adjoining rooms, one of which was his personal office. To his great relief, it was both spacious and charming. Windows facing out the back of the building shed light on rows of empty bookcases, and there was a handsome mahogany desk and several delightful Chippendale chairs suitable for even the richest clients. He'd just begun inspecting his desk when the door to the front office opened with a bang.

  "Right. Now, 'ere it is, mate, the latest mail," came a slightly slurred voice. "This bundle is fresh from Waverly, just off the Royal Mail coach. I collect from you, sir, and you collect in turn from those who receive the letters. And see this one 'ere? I'm returnin' it. And I expect my due, mind you!"

  Jack went to the adjoining doors and quickly learned that the postboy, as Giles had quaintly and archaically

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  called him, was a big, stocky bear of a man with three days' growth of beard covering his beefy cheeks. When he stepped fully into the office, he brought with him the distinct aromas of leather and liquor.

  "You owe me one shilling and sixpence for this letter," he hiccuped, running a hand under his crusty nose.

  Harding looked at the letter and frowned. "Why, this missive came from Middledale and it was supposed to travel to Fielding. Let the guard collect there when he finds the person to whom it was written."

  Jenkins scratched his stubble of a beard with a square paw and focused his rummy eyes on Harding. "Look 'ere, mate, let's get off to a good start, shall we? This letter couldn't be delivered because it 'as no name."

  Harding's eyes narrowed on the missive. "That's because someone dropped it in a puddle." He snatched the letter and pointed at the weeping address. "There was a name and an address written here above the town of Fielding, but everything but the word Fielding has been blurred. It's no wonder it couldn't be delivered. I daresay it was dropped in the rain."

  "Right! And therefore I'm returning it."

  Jack had been watching from the doorway and decided that now was a propitious time to intercede.

  "Good afternoon," he said amiably and introduced himself, treating Jenkins like a proper gentleman. The combination of respect and charm from Jack partially thawed the man's foul mood.

  "Look 'ere, Mr. Fairchild," he said, "I 'ave to be strict about collectin'. If I didn't, no one would pay me. It's my job, you see. As you well know, anyone can post a letter for free. It's the person who does the receivin' who 'as to pay the postage. Sending letters is an expensive business,

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  fourpence for the first fifteen miles alone. Why, a letter goin' seven hundred miles costs seventeen pence. And if there's two sheets of paper the cost doubles. If word gets around that the Royal Mail doesn't mean business about collectin' at the end of the run, then people will go about sending letters willy-nilly with no thought to who 'as to pay. The Royal Mail guard says this letter went all the way to Fielding, but the receiver could not be found. Since there is no name on the return address, and nothing but the word Middledale, I 'ave to collect from you."

  "With all due respect, Mr. Jenkins, how do I know that this letter ever made it as far as Waverly, let alone Fielding? Now just suppose, for argument's sake, you accidentally dropped it in the rain on your way to Waverly and decided to make the new lawyer in town pay his dues, as it were, before he grows wise to your scheme."

  "Oh, sir!" Jenkins said, his fat, chapped lips turning down in horror. "I would never, ever take such advantage of a gentleman. Trust me, sir, if this ever 'appens again, I'll spend me own gin money payin' for it. It's simply, ye see, Millicent needs to be reshod. Practically lame, she is, poor old girl."

  His eyes filled with tears and he motioned to the open door, where a tired old mount stood with drooping eyes and protruding ribs.

  "Your nag?" Jack surmised.

  Jenkins nodded solemnly.

  "I understand, good man," Jack said, entwining his fingers behind his back and nodding sympathetically. Jack looked consideringly at Harding. He put an arm around his secretary, pulled him aside, and said quietly, "Now, Harding, I know what you're thinking. We can't afford it, but poor Jenkins can't be expected to take such a loss.

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  He says the Royal Mail did its best to deliver the letter."

  "He very likely passed out in a puddle twenty paces down the road and can't remember what the devil happened to that missive," Harding whispered. "If Jenkins figures you're an easy mark, he'll bring back half the post without making any effort to reach the Royal Mail coach. Isn't it bad enough that Giles says Jenkins has been known to drink away the postal fees before they ever reach the mail coach?"

  Jack glanced up at the anxious Jenkins, then murmured, "Jenkins has an honest face. Let us give him the benefit of the doubt." He reached into his pocket and raised his voice. "Very well, Mr. Jenkins. I'll pay for this letter, even though there is no hope of recovering the costs. But I hope I don't see the likes of this again for some time to come."

  "No, sir." Henry exhaled a liquorish breath and smiled broadly.

  "But you'll never find out who sent that letter," Harding grumbled. "You'll never recover your money."

  "Then let my generosity be a kind offering to my new town. Eh, Mr. Jenkins? This looks like a good place to make my home."

  "Indeed, sir." Jenkins looked so grateful Jack thought he might burst into tears. "You're a good man, Mr. Fair-child. And I'll make sure everyone 'ears about it."

  Jack grinned contentedly and caught his secretary's eye, giving him an I-told-you-so look. When Henry left, he said, "I could do far worse, Harding. Perhaps word of my good deed will travel faster than word of my reputation as a rake."

  "One can only hope, sir," Harding replied stoically.

  CHAPTER THREE

  fter exchanging other letters with Harding, Jenkins staggered out the door and went directly to the tavern down the street. Jack quickly forgot about the missive as he explored his new establishment. He surveyed the cozy quarters upstairs, where he and Harding would live. Then he returned downstairs and retrieved his trunks from the carriage. He had just settled himself behind his desk to review his stack of debts when Giles returned. The articled clerk had changed into outdated but clean clothes. He looked and, more importantly, smelled like a new man. He even appeared to be more alert.

  "If it's jolly good with you, sir," he said, poking his head into Jack's office, "I'll gather the briefs old Mr. Pedigrew left for you before he retired."

  "Excellent," Jack replied, fingering the letter. The water-stained paper waffled at his touch. "Look here, Giles, can you interpret this handwriting?"

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  "What's that, sir?"

  "Do you recognize the handwriting?" He handed over the letter. "Was it written by someone here in Middle-dale?"

  Giles flipped over the weather-worn missive with a quick shrug. "Sorry, sir. I don't recognize it. But this was written by a member of the fairer sex, to be sure."

  Jack cocked his head. "How do you know?"

  "I've seen enough mail come through this office that I've developed an eye for it. A woman's way with the
quill is more delicate." He squinted at the smeared address. "Fielding, it says here. And Middledale is the only mention of its origination. Well, if it was written by someone here in the village, I don't recognize the handwriting."

  Jack stroked his chin. "That's odd, wouldn't you say?"

  "I suppose someone here could have written it and tried to hide his or her penmanship. A very private letter perhaps."

  Jack leaned forward. "Fascinating. Who do you suppose might be inclined to such privacy?"

  "I don't know, sir. But it wouldn't take much effort to find out. Just break the seal and read the signature."

  Jack leaned back and shook his head, his sensibilities recoiling at the prospect. "I couldn't, I'm sure."

  "Mr. Harding said you paid out of pocket for it." He dropped the letter on the desk in front of his employer. "If you find the sender, you can get your money back."

  "But in the process I would have breached her privacy. And she would know it. If it's a she."

  "If I were the sender, sir, I'd be grateful to have my letter back. You don't have to read it. Just glance at the signature."

  "But if, as you say, the handwriting has been disguised,

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  would the sender have signed her name? And if she'd bothered to disguise her identity, it's very likely because she doesn't want anyone to know the letter's contents."

  "You'll never know, sir, until you break the seal and read it for yourself."

  Jack hesitated. "I shall consider your argument."

  And consider it he did. Jack could scarcely concentrate on the briefs Giles brought him. There was something absolutely mesmerizing about the letter. Of course, he'd always been attracted to the forbidden and elusive, at least where women were concerned. This poor missive looked so forlorn, the parchment discolored and mud-splattered, wrinkled and bent. Who could guess what sort of critical intelligence it might contain? Perhaps it informed someone of an inherited fortune. Or perhaps it had been intended for a mother whose daughter was nearing her last breath. Or maybe it had been sent by a scorned lover who was begging forgiveness and threatening to kill herself. The possibilities were endless. And what would happen if any of these sorts of messages did not reach their intended destination? What a peculiar responsibility now sat on his shoulders simply because he had taken it upon himself to pay for it.