Six

THE NEXT FEW WEEKS were a busy time for the Gardiner family. Edward had some social obligations with his friends that consumed many of his evenings, leaving little time for solitary pursuits. As well, the shipment of bolts that Edward had procured in Liverpool arrived at the London warehouse, and private customers were thick at the door to avail themselves of this exceptional fabric before the less exalted masses descended. The change of season always brought more business as men and women found the need to update last year’s clothing and replace worn items before the winter cold set in. In the midst of the busy schedule at his place of work, a note arrived from the coast: A ship from India was expected shortly at Brighton, carrying silks and fine damasks, and Edward found the necessity for another journey would soon be upon him.

And yet, for all these demands on his time, the idea of Miss Grant was never far from his thoughts. He hoped to write to her, to ask those questions he found flooding his mind, but after long days at his business he could not formulate the tactful and proper sentences he knew he needed to compose. When, in the small hours of the morning, he fashioned his letter in his mind, he knew again that he could never remember those delicate turns of phrase when full consciousness was once again upon him. On the odd evening when he was not consumed in his work, his good friend Frederick managed to appear for a game of billiards or cards, or possibly a visit to the club—possibly at his mother’s behest, seeing that her son was about to become lost in his paperwork. And so it was not for some time that he was finally able to sit himself at his desk and reply to this fascinating young woman.

He tried to imagine her in his mind. Was she tall? As tall as him, perhaps? Or petite? Was she delicate or lush in her figure? What colour was her hair? Her eyes? How did her voice sound? Was it low and soothing, or bright and cheerful? Did she draw? Did she play an instrument, perhaps, or sing? Or, rather, could she be one of the few women who made no pretensions to artistic aptitude, preferring the sport field to the salon. Was this her oddity that gave suitors second thoughts? He pictured her now, a compact brunette, skirts hiked almost to her knees as she ran around the field at baseball, or raced horses cross-country, sitting astride like a man.

“Calm yourself, man,” he mumbled. “You are creating a phantasm in your mind!” But he had to know. And thus, after many a false start, he composed his letter.

Miss Grant,

If you were guilty of impropriety in writing your letter to me, how much greater is my guilt in responding. And yet, I believe you will forgive me for this indiscretion, as I have long since forgiven you. We share a common interest in our young friend Matthew, and as such I believe we may consider ourselves somehow connected. Further, I will excuse my execrable behaviour on my status as a mere tradesman and, hoping against hope not to offend the delicate sensibilities of a gentlewoman such that I take you to be, I will presume from you a familiarity and a correspondence which I know I have not earned. Put it down to lower class boorishness if you must.

Your letter itself was a welcome diversion from my routine, and I shall tell you briefly of our young friend, although I am certain he has passed along his news already.

You thanked me for my services towards young Matthew in your own note. But what did I do that any good man would not? How could I leave a young boy, injured and weeping, to fend for himself? And if I have offered him a position, it is I who should thank him for accepting it. He is a smart, smart lad, and I have taken much advantage of his prodigious numerical skills already in the short time of our relationship. I hope to guide him to further studies, for an intellect such as his should not be forsaken. And yet, I am curiously loath to engage a tutor, for I find I am relying more and more upon his presence and skills in my business affairs and will miss him whilst he is at his studies. No matter - educate him I shall!

His foot, you will be happy to know, is well healed. He has been given leave to use it as much as he feels comfortable, and Dr. Wallace assures us that he will suffer no ill effects from his injury. Already he is walking without his crutch for short distances, and his strength and stamina improve daily. He has begged an extra day off each week, and he intends to explore everything that London has to offer. As his foot heals further, I am certain that he will be well amused by the greatness of this fine city.

Miss Grant, I must freely admit that if you were here, in front of me in person, I should never undertake to address you in the manner I shall in this letter. In person, I should be aware of your sense of propriety and would be more careful not to cause you discomfort by unwanted forwardness. However, I will be bolder in ink, for I know that should I offend you, you may merely cease reading and consign the remainder of my words to the flames, never to darken the fine contours of your thoughts again. However, there is a large part of me that hopes you will at least deign to read all my words and give them some consideration before banishing me to the purgatory of your choice.

Now that I have declared myself to be a most insensitive and uncaring fellow, I shall proceed with my missive. By Matthew’s admission, you must have some notion of myself. However, in the event of some lacunae in your knowledge, I shall enlighten you further. My name, as you are aware, is Edward Gardiner, and I reside in a part of London near Cheapside. My father was successful in his business dealings, and I have undertaken to continue his work, with him, in the trade and sale of fine fabrics and notions from the far corners of the world.

I was more than fortunate to be given an education, both at home as a lad and abroad as a man, and whilst much of my reading necessarily involves political and economic treatises, I do enjoy fine literature as well. I am not particularly gifted in matters artistic, but I do very much enjoy the theatre and the opera, and in my dreams I am a tenor on the stage, serenading both my soprano-du-jour and the ladies in the audience. However, there is no particular lady to whom I currently address my songs. (There - you see how shamelessly I behave when I believe no one is watching! I do not know you at all, and yet I am an open book, not even a little bit fearful of your disapprobation!)

I further admit that I am fascinated by you. Once again, were you to be here, you should be visiting my mother or one of my sisters, sipping tea elegantly in the front parlor, and I might happen to walk into the room, and decide to take a cup myself. Thereupon, I should say hello and ask if you had a pleasant walk and if the clouds interfered with your planned excursion to the gardens. I might even say a brief word about the latest outrage from the Royal Court and if I felt particularly bold, ask if you had been to Lord So-and-so’s ball. And then I would excuse myself, for fear of being too brash.

But not here, not in this letter. I am brash, indeed, but because I do not know you, I do not fear you—or should I? Do tell me! Your words intrigued me, but more so did the small amount of information provided by our young friend. He told me that you are a young woman of unorthodox habits, but would elaborate no further. I am all curiosity! It is certainly unorthodox to have sent me that first letter, but hardly unwelcome, and thus I wonder what other secrets you might have that would fail to displease me.

Do you, perhaps, gamble in the public houses, or fight lions in the zoological gardens? Or do you amuse yourself by writing letters to unknown men of business and thus cause them to neglect their affairs by intruding upon their thoughts?

If I have not frightened you terribly by my most improper response, I would most certainly welcome a reply.

I remain yours,

E. Gardiner

The candles were low by the time Edward completed his letter, and even after sealing it with red wax and stamping it with his seal, he thought that he must really destroy it. How could he have the audacity to approach a woman like that? And yet, as he stood with the letter in his hand, poised over the dying flames of the fire, he could not bring himself to toss it in. “If she is horrified and curses your existence, you are no worse off than you are now,” he said out loud, and replaced the sealed letter on his desk. The front was inscribed to Miss Grant, via our common friend.

Edward expected to leave for Brighton the following morning. He realized too late that Matt might not have time to send his letter before they departed. He had never seen a letter from Matt on the table for the post office, and the housekeeper did not recall being asked to mail anything. Perhaps the letters were going out through an acquaintance in town, Edward mused. That would also explain why Matt was so desirous of not working one extra day a week. If so, how long would it be before the letter to Miss Grant were on its way? Would he have time to reconsider? If he did have the opportunity, would he? Frustrated with his unsettled mind, Edward brushed away these thoughts and began to prepare for bed, aware of a very early departure in the morning.

When dawn finally arrived, however, Edward had not slept for a minute. His mind was full of the mysterious Miss Grant. He fretted about how she would receive his letter, whether she would be amused or disgusted. Would she reply? Would she just ignore him? The most vexing question that Edward kept asking himself was why he cared so much. I’ve never met her. I know nothing about her. She could be an angel or a harpy, a beauty or a crone. She is unusual, I know, but I know nothing more. Why does her regard mean so much to me? He dragged his body from the rumpled sheets and dressed in a hurry, hoping to get to the library and burn that awful letter before he could think clearly.

He was too late. When he walked into the room, freshly shaven but still foggy-eyed, Matt was sitting by the window, reading. “I found the letter you wrote to my friend, Miss Grant,” he said with a wide, innocent smile. “I knew we was leaving early, and so I made sure it went out early with the delivery boy. He’ll take it to where it will get to her.” His wide eyes begged for Edward’s approval at this initiative, and what could Edward say in return, but “Thank you for your forethought, lad!”

The trip to Brighton was successful, as Edward had expected it to be. He knew his business and his dealers, and the enterprise was concluded quickly and to everyone’s satisfaction. Matthew, once more, was of considerable value in assisting with the calculations and decisions about prices and commissions. And, as usual, he was a pleasant but quiet companion, speaking cheerfully when engaged, but holding his tongue when silence was desired. As per his habit, he spoke little about himself, offering witty insights into other topics of conversation, but not providing any more information as to his own story.

Edward found he liked the boy very much, and each day was profoundly glad that he had decided to take that walk along the stream back in Derby, although that same question that had disturbed him in Derby still gnawed at the corners of his thoughts. There was something... not quite ordinary, for lack of a better term, about young Matthew. Nonetheless, they continued to rub along as well as they ever did and enjoyed each other’s company.

They arrived back home a week later, late in the evening and secure in the knowledge that a shipment of fine silks would soon be on its way to the warehouses. Autumn was sliding into winter, and a dreary drizzle fell on the city streets. Edward and Matt were chilled and aching from the damp cold as they finally walked up the stairs to the family’s house and Edward could see that Matt’s ankle was aching, although the boy made no word of complaint. Whilst strong enough for normal use, the cold and damp weather bothered it, and he was in poor spirits. Mrs. Potter, the housekeeper, had prepared a small supper for the travellers, and both were more than thankful for the hot tea and stew, which they ate with warm bread and cheese. Matt ate quickly and then excused himself whilst Edward finished his meal more slowly and enjoyed a glass of brandy.

There would be correspondence on his desk, Edward knew, and contracts to examine and accounts to be drawn up, but they would all wait until morning. He would not work this evening, but he did want to see what awaited him, and so, at last, he dragged his weary body to his office. There on his desk, as expected, was the pile of paperwork to be completed. And, another letter.