It’s the last day of the year, and Gray and I are enjoying a day of rest. Okay, “enjoying” might be an exaggeration. Possibly even sarcasm. It isn’t even noon yet, and we’re already at loose ends.
Any festivities won’t begin until this evening, which means we have the whole day to do whatever we want. Except . . . Well, we can’t do what we want because before Isla left on last-minute errands with Mrs. Wallace, she made us promise not to do any work. At all. We can’t crack open a jar from Gray’s collection of pickled body parts. We aren’t even supposed to set foot in the laboratory. Gray can’t work on his latest paper for publication. I can’t catch up on reading his past publications. If it is even tangentially related to the triumvirate of work—undertaking, forensic science, or detection—we are forbidden to engage in it, which seems more like a punishment than a gift.
As for gifts, I’m still short one for Isla, which means I need to go shopping, but Isla also made me promise to keep an eye on her brother and make sure he doesn’t work. I have a feeling that’s supposed to go both ways. If I need to watch him, then I also can’t sneak in any work. But if he’s supposed to be relaxing, then last-minute holiday shopping with me isn’t what she had in mind.
While we’ve been reading, there’s really a limit to how long either of us can do that without getting antsy. So when the doorbell rings, we practically bowl each other over in our haste to answer. Jack is running last-minute errands while Alice is with Isla and Mrs. Wallace, meaning we are left to answer the door . . . or fight over who gets the privilege. I manage to throw it open first, with Gray right at my heels.
It’s a young man with a thick envelope. “Package for Miss Mallory Mitchell.”
“That is me. Thank you.” I take it and turn to Gray. “Pay the lad, sir.”
“For your package?”
He doesn’t hesitate, though, and gives the young man enough to set the boy grinning. After the door is shut, Gray whisks the envelope from my hand.
“Fine,” I say. “I will repay you.”
“That is not my concern. My concern is that this almost certainly contains work, and we are not to work today.”
I reach for the envelope. “Let me open it and find out.”
He holds it aloft. “I cannot allow you to take that chance. In merely opening it, you might lay eyes on correspondence of a work nature and thus break your vow to Isla. I will save you from that. You may have this the day after tomorrow.”
I glare and grab for it, but he easily holds it above my head.
“Pity you are not taller,” he says. “If only you could reach— Ow!”
He dances back, lifting his knee. “Did you just kick your employer in the shin?”
“Certainly not.” I pluck the envelope from his hand. “I am forbidden to work today, so you cannot be my employer.”
“That isn’t how it works.”
I peer up at him. “Is it not? So you are always my employer? Always in a position of authority, ready to wield it over me even on a rare full day off? How very Victorian of you.”
“That . . .” He fixes me with a look. “That is unfair.”
“Nope.” I walk off, holding the envelope. “See, now if you’d accused me of kicking a friend in the shins, I’d have felt bad. But an employer who insists on being treated as an employer even when I am not working? He deserves a kick in the shins.”
“Who is the package from?” he says as I head for the stairs.
“Such an employer also does not deserve to share in the temporary distraction of my unexpected mail.”
I’m halfway up the stairs when Gray snatches the envelope from my hands. I wheel and nearly stumble straight into his arms. He manages to catch me.
“Trying to trip me on the stairs now?” I say.
“I just saved your life. You could have fallen and broken your neck.”
“Only because you—” I shake my head. “The envelope, please.”
“Am I allowed to witness the opening?”
“If you can be quiet and patient. Which means no.”
He shakes his head and hands it over. We continue up and back into the library, where I sit. Then I open the envelope to find a sheaf of papers. I flip through the sheets and frown.
“It seems to be a manuscript,” I say. “How odd. Who would . . . ?”
I trail off as I see the letter on top.
Dear Miss Mitchell,
I very much enjoyed meeting you and Dr. Gray, and I would love to learn more about your joint efforts in the science of detection. Might I take you both to dinner next year, when I visit Edinburgh in the summer?
In the meantime, here are the first chapters of my new book. I have even signed it. I thought it might be an appropriate Hogmanay gift for Dr. Gray’s sister.
All the brightest blessings in the new year. May 1870 be wonderful for you both.
Faithfully yours,
Charles Dickens
I stare at the letter as my eyes fill. Then I hand the papers to Gray and go to look out the window over the rear gardens.
“Mallory?” Gray says, his voice soft. “Are you all right?”
“I am overcome by his kindness, that is all.”
His hand closes on my elbow, making me jump, but I don’t turn.
“That is not all,” he murmurs.
I shake my head.
“Mr. Dickens will not be taking us to dinner next year, will he?” Gray’s voice is so soft that it breaks the dam, tears flowing even as I wipe them away.
“I wondered if that was it,” Gray says. “You were very kind when we spoke to him, but I could tell something was wrong. When he spoke about his new book, you . . . seemed distressed. I did not know whether to speak of it again later. I realize there are things you know that . . . we should not.”
I nod, still looking out the window.
“Might we talk of it?” he murmurs. “Since I have figured it out for myself?”
I hesitate, and then I turn. “I didn’t know until he mentioned what he was writing, and then I realized what it was and that he’ll never finish it and . . .”
Gray pulls me into a hug. It’s a careful movement, gently tugging me and checking for any resistance. I let myself fall onto his shoulder, and he pats my back, a little awkwardly.
“I’m overreacting,” I say.
“Not at all.”
“I don’t know Mr. Dickens beyond his work. I shouldn’t be so rattled by knowing he’s going to die soon. I just . . .” I take a deep breath and blurt, “It reminds me of watching the hanging.”
I expect him to ask how, but he only nods and says, “You see a living person and know they’re going to die.”
“Which happened with my nan, too. I knew she was dying. I was there when she did. But it felt different. I helped put someone on the gallows and watched her die. Saw her speak, knowing she would be dead in a few minutes. She was a horrible person, but still . . .”
“Yes.”
After I’d gone to the execution, Gray told me that he’d accompanied McCreadie to a couple, when McCreadie had to stand as witness. Like me, he thought he’d been prepared, and then discovered he wasn’t.
“And Mr. Dickens isn’t a horrible person,” I say. “He didn’t kill anyone. But somehow, because I know he’s dying soon, I feel as if I’m responsible. It wasn’t like that with my nan.”
“Because in Mr. Dickens’s case, you possess knowledge no one else does.”
“I can’t stop his death,” I say. “In case you’re wondering.”
“I would never wonder that,” he says softly.
“It’s a stroke. Maybe he already feels poorly and that’s why he’s retiring from the performances.” I glance at the letter. “So, yes, that has been weighing on my mind, and I apologize if I’ve been testy.”
His lips quirk. “If you were, I presumed I gave you cause, as usual.”
He sobers and steps back. “In this case, I did give you cause, and I would like to apologize for that. I insisted on hearing Lady Inglis out regarding the case, and then I snapped at your every attempt to make the situation easier for me.”
“Yes,” I say, but then add, “I understand it was difficult for you.”
“Which is why you tried to mitigate that.” He walks across the library and lowers himself to a chair with a sigh. “I thought I could emotionally detach myself from it, but I could not.”
I know what I should say, and I don’t want to. But if I really am his friend, then I need to.
I settle into the seat next to his and turn to him. “If you regret how things ended . . .”
“I do.”
I tamp down the blaze of disappointment.
“You could reverse that,” I say.
He frowns over at me, brows creasing. “Reverse . . . ?”
“If you still have feelings for Lady Inglis, I strongly suspect they would be reciprocated.”
He lets out a deep sigh and slumps into his chair. “Which is both the problem and not the problem. The opposite of the problem, in fact.”
“Okay . . .”
He slants a look my way. “I am going to make a confession that will not reflect well on me. I was not entirely honest about how things ended. Yes, I made the mistake of thinking it was an exclusive relationship. Yes, I found out otherwise. Yes, that would have ended the relationship for me. However . . .”
He fusses in his seat before saying, “I may have given the impression I was angry, even hurt. I certainly behaved that way to Lady Inglis. But that is a lie. I was relieved.”
“Relieved?”
His hands move on his lap, as if he’s not sure what to do with them. “When it happened, I discovered I was relieved to have a reason to end the affair. I enjoyed her company, but we did not suit, and instead of politely disengaging, I leapt on an excuse.”
He glances my way. “An excuse that could be seen as her fault. Which was not my intention at the time. I took full responsibility for the misunderstanding. I thought that would be the end of things. However, the problem with blaming a misunderstanding is that it leaves the other party thinking that the problem can be rectified.”
“Ah,” I say. “Lady Inglis wanted to fix things. That’s why she sent the letter and such.”
A slight flush touches his cheeks. “Yes, and the more she tried to reunite, the worse I felt.” He takes a deep breath. “I treated her poorly.”
“Not as poorly as Lord Simpson did.”
A humorless smile. “That is not much consolation, given how horrified I am by his actions. It also compounds the matter. She deserves better.”
“She does,” I say. “And I hope she finds it. What you did . . .”
I consider before I continue, “I understand that you feel bad for misleading her, but I also understand why you did. Is it ever possible to break up with someone and not hurt their feelings? There’s a breakup cliché in my world. The person ending things often says ‘It’s not you, it’s me’ in hopes of making it easier. Because how do you tell someone you just don’t fancy them enough?”
“Yes. I was fond of her. I enjoyed our time together, and she was a good person who did nothing wrong.” He exhales. “So that is my confession. If I was uncomfortable during this case, it was because I had done wrong by her. I could fix that by confessing . . . but it feels as if it would only make things worse.”
“Yeah, going back and saying you just weren’t that into her definitely isn’t going to make her feel better. We solved her case, and from what I understand, that pushed her to make a choice she already knew she had to make.” I glance at him. “Like discovering she was still seeing Lord Simpson pushed you to make a choice you knew you had to make. Sometimes we need the push. Now I hope she finds someone who treats her as she deserves to be treated.”
“As do I.”
I rise and take the envelope from the table. “Circling back to this, Mr. Dickens wanted me to give the first chapters to Isla, but I don’t feel right doing that.”
“Because he’ll never finish the book.”
I nod. “I think, after his death, I can give this to her and explain.”
“She would like that very much.”
I pass him a wry smile. “I still need to get her a gift, though.”
His brows shoot up. “You have not—” He winces. “Of course you haven’t. You have been busy on the case I dragged you into.”
“You didn’t drag, and thanks to that case, I can get her something nice. I just . . .” I glance at the window, the light already fading. “I need to do it fast.”
“Let us go out together, then.”