“If Walter plans to ask for my hand, it would best that I get some rest.” She continued on her way up the steps. “Otherwise my response will be the sort of audible breathing that will not meet with your approval.”
“Have you forgotten what day it is?” he called after her. “We’ll be leaving for church services shortly. You’d best prepare.”
• • •
WALTER WAITED JUST OUTSIDE THE VESTRY, JUST AS HE always did, so he could share a pew with her family. Reverend Virgil Franklin offered a rousing sermon on the evils of temptation. So much so that Edwina felt the tines of Satan’s pitchfork jabbing at her for her recent fall from grace. Upon investigation, however, she discovered her mother was pinching her to keep her awake. She suspected her arm would be black and blue tomorrow, a visual testament to a different sort of awakening. One that she eagerly wished to repeat in spite of the reverend’s warnings.
She pleaded a headache when Walter requested that he speak to her alone but agreed to meet with him the following evening. In the time in between she needed to decide what answer would be most appropriate to Walter’s anticipated proposal. She had a vague recollection that Ashton had promised something last night in the hackney, something about fathers and issues. She knew he hadn’t asked for her hand in marriage, as their association had just begun. However, as long as Ashton harbored feelings similar to hers for him, she would wait.
• • •
UPON RETURNING HOME SHE DID MANAGE TO CATCH A few hours of rest, but then the lure of applying the Falcon slogan to the coded message proved too tempting. She woke in late afternoon and straightaway pulled out her writing desk. She recovered her journal from her reticule, noting that the scarlet ribbon that she’d used to keep it closed had disappeared. Odd. She couldn’t recall seeing it in the gallery. Still, ribbons were easy to replace. Using the slogan as a guide, she copied each unique letter alongside her alphabet chart. Though the unique slogan letters only took her to the letter “T” on her plain text chart, she had enough to decipher the message and use supposition to complete the chart. All earlier guesses based on the words “pillow book” proved correct, and the missing letters fell into place.
A love letter. There could be no doubt. Much like the coded messages in the personal columns, she could see that this letter spoke of forbidden longings and yearnings that distance could not dissipate. It spoke of the power of a lingering touch, the memory of a kiss. Her heart twisted for the authoress of the letter, as it was clearly penned by a woman mourning the loss of her lover. No identification existed of the authoress beyond the letter “S,” and although the letter was directed to “my dearest love,” she had no doubt it was meant for the senior Trewelyn. Only the intended recipient would be mindful of its initial absence from the pillow book.
The pillow book! Suddenly the frame of reference fell into place. The authoress had placed this in a Japanese pillow book to suggest the sorts of things they had once shared and wished to share again. She wished she could remember the page that secreted the note. Imagining the sound of Ashton’s voice whispering, she recalled that quote from Oscar Wilde. “The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself.” The letter was clear. Yielding led to longing as well. A taste of the forbidden fruit only made one want it all the more.
To that, she could attest. Even though they had been together so recently, she felt the absence of Ashton’s arms, the touch of his lips on her breast, the play of his tongue much lower . . . She reached for her fan to alleviate the sudden surge of heat in her face. If one was doomed to be sick with longing, she preferred that it be for something experienced and not merely imagined. She would never have imagined the sensations Ashton released last night. Her hand drifted toward that secret place, but her several layers of clothing denied any attempt to emulate the netsuke. It was indeed unfortunate that the Britons did not adopt the far more sensible attire of the Japanese.
She needed to take this letter to Ashton so he could see that it posed no threat in a political sense to his family. As he was bound to wonder about the mysterious S, Edwina decided to visit the Mayfair Messenger in the morning. Sarah’s research into Ashton’s father’s past might be able to provide a clue as to the woman’s identity. The two must have shared a connection sometime in their past. Perhaps such a connection would have been noted in the social columns.
• • •
THE FOLLOWING DAY WAS A BUSY ONE FOR LOVE, IT seemed . . . or at least the pursuit of love. The Messenger’s office was filled with those seeking to kindle a flame. Edwina waited for several customers to finish placing ads before she could approach Sarah.
Sarah squinted at her through her spectacles. “There’s something different about you. Is your hair arranged differently?”
Edwina patted the back of her head. “No, nothing’s changed.” Of course, something indeed had changed, something life-altering, but she was surprised it made a difference in her appearance.
“You look younger, happier,” Sarah observed, a bit suspiciously.
“Maybe I’m well rested. I slept away most of yesterday.” Sarah wouldn’t approve of the real reason, so Edwina kept that to herself. “Perhaps it’s my new gown.” She twirled in front of Sarah so she could appreciate the printed day dress with a lacy bodice and peplum. Even her hat was new. A straw confection with a wide front brim that both shaded and framed her face. She had dressed for her later meeting with Ashton in Regent’s Park. This gown featured an exposed neck as opposed to those stiff high collars that Walter preferred. “But I wanted to stop by this morning to see if you’d uncovered any information on my request.”
“Edwina, I have so much to tell you. I tried to research the newspapers, but it was a monumental undertaking without specific dates to mark a starting point. You know the Messenger has been published for almost forty years! That’s a lot of newsprint to review if you don’t know what you’re looking for or when to begin.”
“But you discovered something, yes?” Her friend’s enthusiasm was certainly a good sign. Plus she did say she had something to tell . . .
“No. I didn’t find a thing, but Mr. Morrison noticed my difficulty and dedication and offered assistance.”
The door bells jingled, announcing another patron had entered the office. Even as she was anxious to hear the rest of the story, Edwina stepped aside so as to offer privacy to the new patron. A privacy she hoped Sarah had extended to her research mission. Edwina certainly didn’t wish to expose Ashton’s father to any untoward gossip. Even if Sarah found nothing about the mysterious “S” or the Calcutta connection, the transcribed letter itself should alleviate Ashton’s fears that his father was involved in treacherous acts. Quite the contrary.
From the back of the office, Edwina observed her friend as she efficiently dealt with a patron wishing to place an ad. If she wasn’t mistaken, Sarah seemed happier and more enthusiastic this morning—the very qualities of which she had accused Edwina. Was it possible that Sarah had . . . No. She shook her head. To her knowledge Sarah was not keeping company with anyone. As she so often explained, with Nan to attend to, she simply didn’t have the time. The patron paid for the ad and left Sarah and Edwina alone once more.
“Mr. Morrison suggested that I would make better progress in this venture if I spoke to the person responsible for writing most of the social columns.”
“You could do that?” Edwina was astonished. “One person wrote all those columns?”
“Indeed. Would you believe it was Mr. Morrison’s grandmother?” Sarah’s eyes radiated excitement and pride. “The Messenger was started by Mr. Morrison’s father in 1856. At the time he enlisted his mother to write the society column. She never stopped. Well . . . until recently, that is.”
“And you can still speak with her? She’s still alive?” Edwina asked. Having l
ost her own grandparents so many years ago, she’d forgotten that others hadn’t that same experience.
“He took me to speak with her. Her mind is very lucid, though she tires easily.” Her voice dropped. “She appeared exceedingly frail; a stiff breeze could conceivably blow her away. Mr. Morrison is so attached to her, he’ll be devastated when her time comes.” Her voice trailed off in premature mourning.
Edwina just stared. Was this the same “Old Measly Morrison” that Sarah had fairly lambasted on a daily basis? Now she was sad for the eventual passing of the tyrant’s grandmother? “We are speaking of the same Mr. Morrison who won’t publish your articles?”
Sarah waved her hand as if that was of little consequence. “He took me in his carriage to his grandmother’s house for tea. His parents died when he was very young, you know.”
Of course, Edwina didn’t know. From her previous descriptions, Sarah seemed to question if Mr. Morrison was born of human parents and not beasts of the jungle.
“His grandmother raised Mr. Morrison, just as I’m raising Nan.”
Suddenly, Edwina realized that Sarah regarded Mr. Morrison’s grandmother as a sort of contemporary.
“So you had tea with his grandmother . . .”
“Mr. Morrison left us alone to talk. It was the most amazing thing. Mrs. Morrison knew Trewelyn, Sr.”
“She knew him!”
“Well, she knew of him,” Sarah corrected. “Trewelyn, Sr. would have been a contemporary of her son.”
“I see,” Edwina replied, even though she didn’t. Even if the grandmother wrote the gossip column, it was unlikely the woman would know of everyone in London, unless . . . “Trewelyn, Sr. appeared in the gossip column?”
“Let’s just say the acorn didn’t fall far from the tree,” Sarah said with a bit of smugness.
“Mr. Trewelyn is a handsome man,” Edwina reasoned, half to herself. “It would stand to reason that his father would have been as well.”
“Oh, it’s more than appearances.” Sarah shuffled through a stack of envelopes. “Trewelyn, Sr. was said to enjoy women of all cultures and stations in his day,” Sarah said.
“Cultures?”
“Trewelyn, Sr. was involved in his father’s shipping business and thus had traveled the world over by the age of eighteen. He married a young woman who brought money and connections into the family business, according to the wishes of his parents.” She turned and stuffed the envelopes into a wall of cubbyholes. “You’re aware that she died giving birth to Ashton.”
That information solidified in a lump in Edwina’s throat. “No . . . I didn’t know that.” Poor Ashton. He never knew his real mother, never experienced that deep abiding love a mother feels for her newborn. “I knew she’d died of course,” Edwina managed somewhat awkwardly. “But I didn’t know of the circumstances.”
“Of course, after she was gone, his father retained a series of nannies, nursemaids, and governesses—”
“Was one of them Japanese?” Edwina asked on a hunch.
Sarah stopped her envelope sorting and turned toward Edwina. “How did you know?” She peered over her glasses. “That’s where the scandal comes in. It’s the main reason Mrs. Morrison remembers Trewelyn.”
“Scandal?”
Sarah put the envelopes down and leaned on the counter, lowering her voice. “When he returned from a shipping venture to the Orient, he brought a woman with him and installed her in his house. Can you imagine? It was said she had full authority over the child and the servants, even though she rarely spoke and knew only a little English.”
Edwina could imagine very well. The Japanese artifacts scattered throughout the house had to be the result of someone who appreciated the culture, and to appreciate such a thing, one must have had some sort of strong influence. The secret gallery was most likely an indication of the type of influence.
Sarah returned to filing her envelopes. “She would have been a most irregular woman to hire to care for his son, yet he did just that. To make matters worse, he even tried to introduce the woman in society. He took her to plays and refused house parties that would not include her as a guest. One wouldn’t attempt that with an English governess much less a Japanese one.”
“There were repercussions?” Edwina wasn’t certain which shocked Sarah more, that the governess was Japanese or that Ashton’s father attempted to elevate her position.
“Of course! His father, Ashton’s grandfather, cut his son off from the shipping business. That’s how the freight business began. Mrs. Morrison wasn’t exactly certain what led to the decision to replace the governess. She seemed to recall some incident at a dinner party where Trewelyn, Sr. brought the woman. Soon after, she left his employ and London, it seems. Mrs. Morrison thought she recalled the girl got mixed up with someone else in the freight trade, but she wasn’t certain. She only remembered that the girl refused to adopt proper attire. She insisted on wearing those silk robes wherever she went. That’s what made the whole affair so memorable.”
“Did she remember the woman’s name?”
Before Sarah could answer, the bells above the door jangled again and Edwina reluctantly moved to the back of the room. Christopher! These interruptions might be necessary but must they occur at such critical junctures? The patron bent over the counter to write a message on a form. Sarah glanced over the man’s head toward Edwina, then silently shook her head in answer. Edwina would have been tempted to bet her journal that the woman’s name began with an “S.”
It all made a sort of sense. As she decoded the letter last night, she was struck by the expressions of dedication and devotion. Trewelyn, Sr. and the mysterious “S” shared an intimate connection that had survived years. The thought made her smile, thinking of the range of emotions Ashton’s letters had brought her. The edgy anticipation whenever the postman made his rounds, the intense pleasure of opening the envelope and reading Ashton’s words, the disappointment and longing when the reading was complete. Did those emotions lessen with the passage of time? She suspected the answer was no, placing the correspondents in a heaven and hellish existence. She felt sympathy and a sudden appreciation of Ashton’s father that she hadn’t felt before. Would Ashton feel the same?
But why were the letters sent in code? Perhaps the answer lay in Mrs. Morrison’s comment of a competitor in the freight industry. Certainly the coded messages she read in the Messenger spoke of entangled relationships where one or both were married. It was sad, really. That two people who so obviously loved each other would be separated by more than distance.
The jangle of the door bell pulled her from her thoughts. With the customer gone, Edwina returned to the counter.
“Did Mrs. Morrison mention anything about Calcutta?” It was the puzzle piece Edwina had not yet fitted into the pattern.
“No,” Sarah said. “But she did invite me to return for a visit sometime. She was a fascinating woman, and very proud of her grandson, I might add.”
From the look on Sarah’s face, Edwina imagined that the grandmother wasn’t the only one proud of Mr. Morrison’s accomplishments.
“So . . .” Edwina’s lips tilted in a mischievous smile. “Have you spoken to Mr. Morrison?”
The arrival of another customer brought their meeting to a close. Edwina thanked Sarah for her information and exited from the office. She glanced at her locket watch once she reached the bustling street. It was time to meet with Ashton at the park to tell him of the letter’s contents. Even the darkening clouds building in the sky could not lessen her soaring spirits. She waved her handkerchief to signal a hansom. A bicycle could not take her to her love fast enough.
• Eighteen •
THE TIGER CAGE AT THE ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS IN Regent’s Park had always been popular among gray-attired governesses and their noisy young charges, so it was hardly surprising that a crowd had gathered in
front of the striped Bengal tiger that paced relentlessly behind thick iron bars. The unruly children were silenced, however, when of all the peering faces that day, of all the gesturing hands and awed stares, the tiger stopped its constant movement and fixated its goldenrod stare on none other than Edwina. Without so much as a growl, the beast sat and narrowed its gaze of pure desperation toward her, toward someone who was once a kindred spirit.
Edwina understood how it felt to be trapped, though her bars weren’t visible to any but herself. Bars that were slowly lowering, boxing her into a future she hadn’t chosen for herself. Bars that would lock in place once her father announced her engagement to Walter. Her dreams of exploring the world would be given as much consideration as her childhood aspirations to be a pirate.
But loving Ashton had changed all that. She laughed to herself, feeling that she had by her very actions flung the door to her own cage wide open. Ashton accepted her for who she was. He understood her desire for adventure. His letters told her as much. Fabulous letters, wonderful letters that she could read and reread when the house was quiet and settled. Each time she found she fell in love with the man once known as Casanova all over again.
She watched couples stroll by. Nannies pushed perambulators. A man pushed a broom to clear the sidewalk of discarded papers from the costermongers selling treats from pushcarts. No one would think twice about a woman resting on the bench in front of the tiger cage. There was another bench that she’d come to think of as “their bench.” The one she’d shared with Ashton the day Matthew had slipped into the stream. But that spot would be too secluded for a single woman to wait alone. This public venue was a much better choice.
Granted, Ashton hadn’t offered for her hand or even expressed the possibility of such, but she had his letters and she could read in them a connection she’d not shared with another. In time, perhaps Ashton would choose to make that connection permanent. Certainly when he read the decoded letter she was bringing to him, the one between “S” and his father, he would eventually recognize the power of such a connection. She certainly didn’t want to be writing coded letters to Ashton years from now, just as she was certain he wouldn’t want to experience that kind of agony. As long as she was patient, Ashton would come to claim her. Edwina smiled ruefully at the tiger and slowly shook her head. She wouldn’t be confined to a cage of bars, watching life pass by without taking part.
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