Fifteen

MONDAY FINALLY ARRIVED, bringing with it sunshine, warmer temperatures, and, to Edward’s joy and consternation, a new letter from Miss Grant. It was sitting on his desk with his morning newspaper, taunting him as he made every vain attempt to ignore its presence in favour of his eggs and cheese and the latest gossip in The Times. After staring for too long at his plate of food, he took his meal and coffee into his study at sat at his desk to read the missive.

Dear Mr. Gardiner Edward, it began.

How can I apologize? I did not wish to give you pain, and yet I know I have done just that. There is so much I am unable to tell you that everything I do say must surely only worsen my offense. I have spent much time over the last several days thinking of how to present my case, but everything I write seems to wither and die on the page. I can only hope that you will find enough of good in me to forgive me, even if only a little. My words have no direction. Of this I am fully aware. I am not able to think clearly enough to be eloquent and witty.

You asked me why. Why I deceived you, why I did not tell you immediately who I was, why I cannot let you call on me. Why we cannot conduct ourselves openly as we should be able to do. I cannot give you complete answers now, as much as that grieves me. Believe me, please Edward, when I tell you that I would like nothing more than for you to call on me. But also, believe me when I tell you that I am afraid, afraid for my life. If it were to become known where I am, I fear my very existence would be in danger. I cannot let my face be seen in society.

The people where I stay now are good, honest people. In truth they are more good than I deserve, for they do not know the dire nature of my situation. They have taken me in in good faith and are harbouring me against evils they do not know exist, giving me the chance to live and hopefully to grow strong enough to overcome this threat. These good people are not in danger, but I fear that were you known to be attached to me, you might face such a threat. This sounds so strange, I know, like a plot from one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels, and perhaps, once this threat is extinguished, I might even write of my own story, put into the world of an exotic novel. But until such time, I must hide.

I have found a good place to hide, indeed. For all that the world seems to be in London, where better to hide than in the midst of a crush of people? My hunters will not seek me where I am. But this is why I cannot let my presence be known, other than through a very few trusted people.

Now, you will ask, why I cannot include you in this group. Edward, I do wish so much to trust you, but unless I divulge more than I feel safe doing so now, I cannot be certain that you would not inadvertently lead my tormentor to me. I believe that you would say nothing, but that is not what troubles me. I do not know how much he may or may not suspect, but I have known him to have people followed. I have seen his henchmen—yes, even in London—and I know the depths of his ruthlessness.

How melodramatic this all is. How mad you must think me. I truly hope that all will be resolved before long, but until then, I can only beg your indulgence, your patience, and your kind forgiveness.

Your friend,

Lynnie Grant

Edward read and reread this strange letter several times. Gone was the witty flirting tone of the previous letters, and in their place was this bizarre and incomplete tale of fear and danger. Was it true? Was Lynnie Grant really in some sort of desperate trouble? Or was it all a fiction? By her own admission, Miss Grant was the writer of novels, a creator of intrigue. A plot like this could merely be the fruit of her imagination, a story she was perfecting before setting it down for the voracious eyes of sensation-seeking young ladies across the land. Was she reeling out her story in an attempt to defraud the wealthy Gardiner family of several thousand pounds? Could the sweet and witty Lynnie Grant be a fortune-seeker, caring less for the trappings of the gentry than for the cold reality of a substantial amount of cash, even if tainted by trade? .

A spark of anger took root in Edward’s consciousness at the thought of being played upon like this. Nothing of the Lynnie Grant he had seen so far seemed to match the ruthlessness of such a demon. He felt he knew this enigmatic lady and such a conceit did not seem to fit her demeanour. If she were truly a spinner of fabulous lies, why tell the truth about her identity at the ball? It would have been easier to maintain her distance or her disguise, with no fear of discovery. Still, forewarned was forearmed, and fighting the sensation of infidelity to her image, Edward resolved to remain alert to these matters. Gradually, the anger transformed into a certain determination. He would find out the truth, and do what he possibly could to learn the truth about Lynnie Grant, and if at all possible, rid the lady of her nemesis.

He had, in fact, made his first inquiries some weeks back, when he sent a messenger to Derbyshire to inquire after some estate owned by the Grant family. He had not heard news yet, but he determined to repeat the inquiry. And yet... if Lynnie’s tale was true, then even asking after her family could put them both in danger. How troublesome this was becoming. Questions would have to be very, very discreet, he now realized. Regardless, the first inquiry had already been made, and he hoped soon to hear the results.

He also knew he needed to reply to the lady who had written so distractedly to him to assure her of his steady friendship. He reappeared briefly in the breakfast room to inform Matthew that he would be late coming to the warehouse that day, and to ask if the lad would have an opportunity to send a reply to the letter he had just that day received. “Indeed, sir, I can do that, I think. If you bring it along, I will take it to where it must needs go on my way home.”

“Thank you, Matthew,” Edward replied. “And, lest I forget, tonight my parents and I are dining out at the Dysons. I will instruct the kitchen to prepare a meal for you. Let Cook know what you desire.”

“Thank you, sir. I should be pleased with a cold plate, and perhaps some simple stew. I will let Cook know on my way to the warehouse. I shall wait for you at the offices.”

Dearest Lynnie,

How shall I understand these strange things you have told me? Can they possibly be true? And yet, I must believe you, for I cannot ever doubt your word. You have given too much of yourself for doubt. Can you really not come to me for assistance? I would not have you in any danger, but I do wish you would find a way to trust in me, for I would very much like to be of help.

I forgive you your actions, and I, too, must beg your forgiveness. I was a cad to leave you as I did, half-way through supper, and without a proper farewell. What you told me was too much to take in at once, and I felt myself unable to face a room full of dancing fools with my head so muddled. I was rude and ungentlemanly in behaviour, and you would be correct to see in me every one of my low-born ancestors. My friend Frederick chastised me for my actions, and I saw that he was correct. If I ruined the rest of your evening, as I am certain I did, all I can do now is say I am sorry for it.

I will assume, until corrected, that Miss Lancaster is another of your trusted allies, for it was with she that you attended Mrs. Dyson’s ball. If I may help you through her auspices, I beg you to let me know of it. Your trust in her also reassures me on another level, for it seems that my friend Frederick is quite taken with her. If you trust her so implicitly, it speaks volumes of her character, and I shall give Fred leave to like her as much as he desires.

I wish to send this note as soon as I may, so I will keep it short and sign off here,

Your devoted friend,

Edward

As had become his habit of late, Edward enclosed the note in a second sheet, inscribed Miss Grant on the front of it, and sealed it with red wax and the imprint of the ring he used for his business dealings. Tucking the letter into a pocket, he now proceeded to don his own outerwear and brave the muddy streets for his place of work.

Matthew was, as expected, at work in the anteroom to Edward’s office, sitting at the small desk by the window, reading over tables of figures and totalling vast columns of sums. A small pile of correspondence sat at the corner of the desk, written in rough by Edward or his father, and waiting for a good and polished copy to be produced in Matt’s careful hand. He looked up from his labours as he heard Edward come up the flight of stairs to where his office was situated. “Mr. Gardiner,” he offered his greeting. Then, more personally than was his wont, “Is anything amiss, sir? You were somewhat distracted this morning.”

Edward shook his head. Too much thinking would get him nowhere. He needed to get on with his day. “No, lad, all is well. Or, rather, I dearly hope it will be. I asked earlier if you might be able to get a letter to Miss Grant today. If I give it to you now, will you be able to complete the task? You may take time from your work to do this thing for me.”

“Aye, sir. I can do that. I will leave at mid day, when I often walk out to take my food, so that none thinks my actions unusual. I know enough of Miss Grant’s troubles to know not to call attention to her in any way. If I go when I normally go, it will not draw notice.”

“Very well then.” Edward stepped into his own office, but paused at the door and turned around. With an unexpected note of urgency in his voice, he asked, “Can you tell me anything, Matt? Anything at all about her situation? I am swept into a tale not my own, and it is consuming me. I find I can think of nothing else, and I worry more than I should.”

“No, I may not say more than I have, sir. I am sorry for that, but I will not betray her trust in me.”

Edward raked his hand through his hair and rubbed his forehead between his eyes as he shook his head. “You have the right of it, lad. I would have it no other way,” he sighed reluctantly. “A loyal friend is a loyal employee, and I would have you be loyal and trustworthy above everything else. Do as you think best, but only, please, do try to get this to her before long.”

“You can rely on me, Mr. Gardiner.” And Matt turned his focus back to his ledgers.

“Aye, sir. Very safe. None knows where she is but her closest friends. They will not betray her. You can count on that.”

Edward inclined his head in thanks and passed through the doorway to his office.

The morning passed in usual fashion, with customers beginning to return to the shops and establishments to order fine fabrics for new garb, for replacing winter gear, and for redoing worn furniture and draperies. The London Season was in full swing as Parliament sat and the Members’ families sought their entertainment. Edward was summoned to conduct a personal tour of his latest silks for the wife and daughter of a certain marquess, and then, only hours later, to conduct a similar tour for the daughter of an earl, who had heard of the marchioness’ special treatment, and who would accept nothing less.

Since both parties purchased great volumes of highly priced silks and damasks, Edward considered this time very well spent indeed! At last, he bid most obsequious au revoirs to the over-dressed Lady Eleanor and informed his manager that he was going home for a while and would return later.

He was approaching his house when he heard his name called. His eyes jolted upwards from their contemplation of the muddy snow at his feet and he spied Hollings at the door to his house. “Mr. Gardiner, there is a messenger arrived at the back for you. He says it is a matter of some importance.”

Picking up his pace, Edward quickly strode into the family home. There, in the kitchen, enjoying a cup of hot tea and a plate of bread and cheese, sat a grubby man of indeterminate age, clad in rough country clothing. His ragged shirt was of indistinguishable hue— possibly it had once been white—and his labourers’ trousers were torn and filthy. He wore no jacket, although a heavy shapeless coat hung on a hook near the fire. A pair of mud-caked boots sat on some rags by the door. Unshaven and with a balding head of greasy hair, the man looked like the sort with whom an elegant citizen would never deign to converse, let alone entertain in his home. The man smiled, showing a blackened tooth to the world, and when he offered his hand to shake, the nails were caked with grime. Edward looked once, blinked, and then suddenly pulled the man up and caught him in a rough and affectionate embrace.

“Mr. Sherrington, my dear sir. What have you done with yourself? I should hardly know you dressed as you are. Whatever have you been up to?” Edward’s pleasure at seeing the man was evident.

“Edward, so very good to see you!” Sherrington’s cultured voice belied his appearance, his clipped and elegant tones perfectly suited to the drawing rooms of the elite rather than the rough houses and alleyways his clothing evoked. “How does the Mater? Your sisters? Your father is well too, I hope. Please let him know I will call upon him as soon as I am made presentable.”

“Did Hollings send you down here to the kitchen? Surely he knows you, and should rather have conducted you to the drawing room.”

“Not at all, Edward my boy. I entered through the kitchen door, as befitting my appearance, and steadfastly refused Hollings’ suggestions of finer surroundings than these. I would hate to soil your mother’s fine upholstery with these filthy clothes.”

Edward pulled a chair to the table next across from Sherrington and called for a cup of tea and plate of food of his own. Then he spoke to his friend once more.

“Well, filthy clothing or no, I am very pleased to see you. But these rough threads surely hold a fabulous account, which I am most eager to hear. Now, Sherrington, do speak, please. I must know what you are about, dressed as you are. This looks like a grand tale, and I am most insistent to hear all you have to say.”