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In Which Julia Writes a “Dear John” Letter
Closeted in her room upstairs, Julia lost no time in adding milk and sugar to the steaming cup of tea provided by her hostess. The lemon wedge that had accompanied them remained untouched, however, even as she raised the cup to her lips and took a long and satisfying pull; she had spoken no less than the truth when she had praised the beverage for its soothing qualities. She took two more sips, then set the cup aside to make room on the writing table for the paper and ink she had requested. It would not be an easy letter to write; she would have to couch her message in the words of a regretful lover, lest her co-conspirator be unable to resist the temptation to open the letter and read it. Fortunately, she had begun composing the missive in her head almost from the moment she had realized such a correspondence would be necessary, and so it did not take as long as it otherwise might have done.
My dearest John, she wrote, I sit here with my teacup at my elbow—sugar, milk, and especially lemon, just the way I like it—contemplating our past, and my own future. Much as I love you (and always will), I cannot persist in a marriage that has brought me equal parts despair and bliss. Marriage is meant to last “till death do us part,” I know, but surely you will agree with my own view, that it would be better to not waste precious time in trying to fix ours, which is long past being mended. And so I must beg you not to waste your energies in pursuit, but to give me up. To do otherwise can only bring pain to us both. Please know that although I must bid you farewell, there remains a part of my heart that will always be yours.
Everything in her longed to close with declarations of everlasting love, but she dared go no further, lest she undo all she hoped to accomplish in writing it. And so, after signing her name with a flourish, she lifted the edge of her skirt and carefully wiped the nib clean on the hem of her petticoat, then jabbed it into the previously neglected lemon wedge.
* * *
HAVING FINISHED HER letter, Julia fanned it to make sure the ink was dry, then folded it, sealed it, and wrote “Mr. John Pickett” on the outside. Once she was certain this, too, was dry, she turned to the window, pushed open the sash, and dropped the letter into the void, leaning over the sill to watch as it fluttered to the ground. She closed the window, wincing at the screech of poorly fitted wood against wood. Almost immediately, there came a knock at her door; clearly, the sound had attracted the notice of Flynn, her supposed lover. She quickly gathered up her writing supplies, then cast a quick glance about the small room in search of anything else that might betray her. Finding nothing that might arouse suspicion, she stuffed the writing materials underneath the bed, then crossed to the door and opened it.
“Yes?” she prompted, unsurprised to discover Flynn standing in the corridor just outside her door. “What is it?”
“Just makin’ sure you’re not after doin’ anything reckless,” he said, his gaze shifting from her face to some point over her shoulder—the window, she had no doubt.
“No. I merely opened the window, thinking fresh air might be welcome, but the wind is a bit too keen, so I was obliged to close it again.”
“Aye, and there’s no tree you might be climbin’ down now, is there?” he asked in mock sympathy. “If that’s all, then I’ll be biddin’ you a good night. Best get some sleep, Mrs. P. We’ve a long way to go in the mornin’.”
And that, she supposed, was that. Clearly, he suspected her of nothing more than looking for an opportunity to escape. And so she was, but she would bide her time until she could be sure such an attempt would have a reasonable opportunity of success. Until then, there was nothing she could do but try, as he said, to get some sleep. She removed her shoes, stockings, and dress—the latter sadly crushed from being worn for at least three days on end—then snuffed the candle and lay down in her undergarments.
She ought to feel rather pleased with herself; she had contrived to carry out one small act of rebellion beneath Flynn’s very nose. More importantly, she had seen to John’s safety. At best, he would decipher her message and act accordingly; at worst (and she considered this unlikely), he would take her letter at face value and, believing himself to be abandoned, return to London without making any further effort to reclaim his errant wife. Either way, her purpose would be accomplished. Yes, she should be pleased.
And yet, the only thing she felt was loneliness. Even in the days following her first husband’s murder, even before love had blossomed between her and the surprisingly youthful Bow Street Runner charged with discovering Lord Fieldhurst’s killer, she had known that she could rely upon him, that she had only to send for him and he would be there. Now there was no one and nothing to rely upon except her own wits, and she was not at all certain that they were up to the challenge. She had never felt so completely alone in her life.
No sooner had the thought formed in her brain than she felt a slight fluttering sensation in her abdomen, almost as if she had swallowed a butterfly. She had not felt the baby move before, but she recognized it at once, and realized that a part of him was with her still, and would remain with her whatever the next day brought, or the next. She cupped her hand over the slight swell of her abdomen and closed her eyes.
She was not alone anymore.
* * *
PICKETT AND HIS IRREGULARS arose the following morning and walked the short distance to the harbor. Three of the four had fortified themselves with a substantial breakfast before undertaking what promised to be a long day at sea—even an easy crossing could not be accomplished in less than seventeen hours—but on this occasion Pickett steadfastly refused his brother-in-law’s urging. In spite of a childhood spent mudlarking along the banks of the Thames and a youth spent unloading coal from the lighters that arrived in London almost daily from Newcastle, Pickett had gone to sea only once before in his life—a jaunt that had ended with his head hanging over the gunwale. In fact, his only agreeable memory of the experience had come in its immediate aftermath, when Julia (rather, Lady Fieldhurst, as she had been at the time) had discovered his sorry state and insisted upon tucking him into her own bed to recover. Although she had been regrettably absent from it at the time, the recollection was nonetheless pleasant enough that, after he and his present companions had purchased tickets, boarded the boat, and located their two tiny cabins, Pickett stretched out on the narrow cot, closed his eyes, and tried to imagine that she might enter at any minute and lay a gentle hand upon his forehead.
The wind off St. George’s Channel was keen, but neither Carson nor Thomas had been at sea before, and both were determined to remain on deck regardless of any discomforts, so as not to miss a moment of the experience. As for Jamie, he was well-acquainted with the troop ships that had conveyed him and his fellow soldiers from their native shores to fight Boney on the Continent, so it was not the novelty of the experience that kept him out of his cabin, but the knowledge that his young brother-in-law would prefer to suffer in privacy. And so Pickett was left alone below deck, drifting in and out of wakefulness and alternating between impatience to reach the coast of Ireland and dread of what might be awaiting him there. But it was better not to think of that. Better, surely, to lie here and concentrate on the rise and fall of the hull beneath him; there were those, he recollected, rolling over with a groan, who found the movement soothing. Then again, there were those who enjoyed riding on horseback. Pickett couldn’t understand them, either.
“John?” Pickett was roused from an uneasy sleep by a hushed voice and a hand shaking him by the shoulder. “Sorry to wake you, old fellow, but we’ll be docking soon.”
Pickett opened his eyes, and found the cabin in semidarkness. Beyond the porthole, seagulls shrieked and men shouted orders, and suddenly their craft gave a jerk as the ropes mooring it to the dock were pulled taut.
“We’ll be allowed to disembark soon,” Jamie continued. “I thought you might want a few minutes to collect yourself first.”
“Oh—yes—thank you.”
“Mr. Pickett, sir?” Thomas appeared in the low doorway. “Shall I collect your bag now?”
“Yes, thank you,” Pickett said again.
As Jamie dragged his own valise from beneath the cot, Pickett heaved himself to his feet with an effort, and the three men climbed the short ladder to join Carson on deck. The wind had whipped a ruddy flush into Harry’s cheeks, and his golden hair was attractively windblown. It would be, thought Pickett, disgusted.
Looking about him, he saw that they were not moored in a harbor adjoining the sea, as they had been in Holyhead, but had sailed up the River Liffey right into Dublin. Although a few ships strained at their ropes as if impatient to put to sea, there appeared to be little activity, and the cranes that had been erected along both banks for loading and unloading cargo now stood idle. Some distance upriver, the north bank was dominated by a large building whose stately columns and domed roof appeared the equal of anything to be seen in London.
“So, what do we do now, chief?” Carson asked.
“We find Mountjoy Square,” Pickett said.
Jamie withdrew the watch from his pocket and checked the time. “I hate to countermand orders, but we’d do better to find lodging for the night, and start fresh in the morning.” No doubt anticipating Pickett’s objections, he added, “Remember that during the summertime, the farther north you go, the later the sun sets. It’s almost ten o’clock. The way I see it, we’re going to have to go door-to-door asking after this man, and I doubt you’ll endear yourself to any of the residents by knocking them up at such an hour.”
Reluctantly, Pickett was forced to admit that he was probably right. And so, after making their way down the gangway, they located the most respectable-looking of the inns that clung to the banks of the river, and went inside. Once again, Pickett requested two rooms, and upon signing his name, the woman behind the counter was moved to exclamation.
“Don’t be tellin’ me you’re this Mr. John Pickett! Well, I must say I’ve been after expectin’—but never mind that! I have somethin’ for you.”
She reached beneath the counter, and Pickett braced himself for the worst. What would it be this time—another finger, or would his tormentor try something different this time? A toe, perhaps, or an ear? But no, she held out a folded and sealed paper of the cheaper sort. Pickett caught a glimpse of his own name written in a familiar hand, and it required all his self-control not to snatch it from the woman’s fingers.
“When was this left here?” he asked, trying to sound nonchalant when he could hardly hear his own voice for the sound of his heart hammering against his ribs.
“Two days ago, it was—or was it three? Aye, I believe it was three.”
Pickett took his prize to the window, where the last of the day’s sunlight reflecting off the water provided enough light by which to read. Three days ago. As of three days ago, she had been alive, and had stood in this very room, leaving a letter for him. He took a deep breath, then broke the seal and spread open the paper. He reached the end, and looked up to find three faces regarding him expectantly.
“It’s her.” He handed the letter to the nearest of his compatriots, which happened to be Carson. “She’s alive, or at least she was, three days ago.”
“Do you mean to tell me,” Harry demanded upon reaching the end and surrendering the unsatisfying correspondence to Jamie, “that this isn’t an abduction at all, but an elopement? That we’re chasing all over the country after a woman who doesn’t want to be found?”
“Of course not,” Pickett said contemptuously, then turned away to ask the proprietress for a candle, as well as paper, ink, and quill.
“I must say, he seems to be taking it awfully well,” Carson observed to the other two men. “Unless, of course, he’s lost his wits entirely.”
“He’s onto something, you watch and see,” Thomas predicted confidently, looking up from the letter he had just received from Jamie. “Mrs. Pickett wouldn’t leave him by choice, no matter what she might be forced to put down on paper.” He was in a better position to know than any of them, having on more than one occasion entered a room unexpectedly to discover master and mistress locked in a passionate embrace.
“You think someone forced her to write this—”
Carson’s question was interrupted by the return of Pickett, bearing a tallow candle set in a pewter holder, and cupping one hand protectively about the flame. He set it down on a small table beneath the window and turned to his valet.
“Give me the letter, Thomas.”
Thomas was quick to obey, and Pickett took the letter from him and held it a few inches above the flame.
Carson turned to address Thomas sotto voce. “If she hasn’t run off and left him, why is he burning her letter?”
No one bothered to answer him, for their attention was all for the paper in Pickett’s hand. It was not burning, but as the paper grew warm from the flame beneath it, dark lines slowly began to appear, underscoring certain letters or words.
My dearest John, it now read, I sit here with my teacup at my elbow—sugar, milk, and especially lemon, just the way I like it—contemplating our past, and my own future. Much as I love you (and always will), I cannot persist in a marriage that has brought me equal parts despair and bliss. Marriage is meant to last “till death do us part,” I know, but surely you will agree with my own view, that it would be better to not waste precious time in trying to fix ours, which is long past being mended. And so I must beg you not to waste your energies in pursuit, but to give me up. To do otherwise can only bring pain to us both. Please know that although I must bid you farewell, there remains a part of my heart that will always be yours.
Pickett dipped the quill into the ink pot and began to copy the underlined letters along the bottom margin of the paper.
HETHERINGTONESCAPEDANDMEANSTOKILLYOUDONOTCOMEFORME
Having recently deciphered a far more complex message written in the same code, Pickett found that this time dividing the letters into words was the work of a moment:
HETHERINGTON ESCAPED AND MEANS TO KILL YOU DO NOT COME FOR ME
“Well, I’ll be damned!” exclaimed Carson, leaning in for a closer look.
“Probably,” agreed Pickett.
“But—how did you know?”
“I broke just such a code last month, in the Lake District.” Of course, that had been the merest stroke of good fortune, as he’d been seated, and had held the letter up where Julia could read it over his shoulder; the candle had done the rest. Still, he wasn’t about to admit that to Harry Carson.
“Yes, I heard all about that,” Carson said impatiently. “But how did you even know to look for such a thing?”
Pickett laid the quill aside and looked up at him. “Julia doesn’t take lemon in her tea.” While Carson pondered this revelation, he added, “You know, there are advantages to staying with one woman long enough to learn something about her.”