There is no doubt about it: My heart is racing.
If anyone finds me inside his bedroom, then my reputation will be in tatters.
There is not a single nervously rambled insult Mama could utter that would do more damage to my prospects than my own foolish behavior.
But a murderer is on the loose!
As an investigator, I am honor bound to do whatever is necessary to identify the culprit and ensure that she is held accountable for her crime. Bea has been trapped in sheds and locked in cellars and held at gunpoint in the pursuit of justice.
The very least I can do is court ruination.
It is a very slight courtship, as Sebastian keeps a neat room, allowing me to locate the letters quickly. They are on the nightstand, next to a well-thumbed copy ofThe Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman,and I slip the packet into my pocket before dashing back toward the door. As it has not been even a full minute since I entered, I do not pause to confirm the hallway is empty. I run out, blood thumping loudlyin my ears, and scurry back to the landing, where I stop to regain my breath. I do not sag my shoulders with relief, but my knees feel momentarily weak, and I clutch the balustrade to make sure I remain upright.
One of the footmen, John, notices me as he trots down the stairs from above, and it requires all my self-control not to startle guiltily. Instead, I hold steady, momentarily tightening my grip on the handrail before continuing down the corridor as though nothing untoward has happened. By the time I reach my bedchamber, however, my hands are trembling, and I manage the door with awkward dexterity. Once inside, I toss myself onto the counterpane.
Phew!
Although the mission to fetch the letters was not fraught, itfeelsextremely fraught, and it takes me a little while to calm down. I inhale deeply as my fingers slowly stop shaking and settle myself against the pillows. Then I withdraw the packet of letters from my pocket. There are ten in total, the first one dated the fifteenth of January. It is brief and to the point: “Dearest Evan: From the moment our paths crossed next to the pond, I have been unable to banish you from my thoughts. I think of you constantly. I am old enough to know better than to allow myself to be overtaken by yearning, and yet I am powerless in the face of my attraction to you. When can we meet again?”
The second dispatch, which is twice as long, alludes to the delights of their subsequent encounter and ends with the promise of more to come. Despite the apparent warmth of their relationship, it is not until the fourth missive that the widow openly declares her affection, identifying Mr. Keast as “my true love,” signing her letter as “eternally devoted,” and pledging her heart to him until her death and beyond. Although the passage does not quite rise to the level of poetry, it is earnest and affecting and calls to mind Georgiana standing on a windsweptbluff above the Aegean Sea, swearing her love for Lazarus inThe Fate of the Dark Dawn.
It has precisely that air of melodrama and tragedy.
Unlike the heroine of the gothic, the widow did not fling herself off a lonesome cliff (only to land safely on a grassy outcropping six feet below). Instead, she chose to inflict violence on her lover, though she does not know it yet. Still in the heady early days of her romance, she has no idea of the horror to come, of the way her disappointment will twist the beauty of their union into an atrocity.
Poor Mr. Keast!
Twice deprived—once of his illusions, once of his life.
To be sure, promising marriage and then failing to follow through is not an honorable way to treat the mother of one’s unborn child. It is a dastardly stroke, and the steward deserved to suffer some consequence for his actions, such as public exposure.
As the widow’s condition would be readily apparent soon enough, she might as well point a finger in blame. According to the letters, which make reference to Mr. Keast’s own written response, she has all the evidence she needs to prove his paternity. Armed with their correspondence, she could have prevailed upon the vicar to convince the steward to set a wedding date or sought Mr. Holcroft’s assistance. Both men are morally upstanding, and even if they had failed to persuade Mr. Keast to respond with decency, they would have castigated him harshly.
Admittedly, a stern talking-to does not possess the same primal satisfaction as slowly squeezing the life out of one’s betrayer, but it also does not require the sacrifice of one’s mortal soul.
Andone’s shawl.
One’s lovely, beautiful, expertly sewn, gossamer silk shawl.
Make no mistake: I do not mean to imply that the shawl is worth more than the widow’s immortal soul. Obviously, the latter is of greater value.
A person’s animating spirit is everything.
That is true, yes.
Unequivocally so.
But the shawlisby Madame Valenaire, a master of her craft, and rarely have I seen a finer example of her handiwork. Even the one Bea owns lacks the exquisite stitching along the border, and counting such a wonder among her possessions, the widow would have been better served by selling the shawl and using the proceeds to establish herself as a recently bereaved widow in another shire.
By any measure, it was a much more practical solution than murder.
Now the culprit has blood on her hands and is without a shawl on which to wipe them.
Aware that I am making too much of the garment—Bea would never focus all her attention on a trifle, however superbly made—I redouble my interest in the letters.
The letters are all we have to find the murderess.
Alas, they provide little insight into her identity, and the information they do contain pertains almost exclusively to the progression of their story, from giddy infatuation to heartrending betrayal. The widow relays every emotion she feels as she gradually realizes that her lover has no intention of keeping his word. Her last missive, full of fury and vengeance, promises revenge.
