Well, not quiteforced.
I have other options, but slyly bending my brother to my will is among my favorite activities, especially because he refuses to believe it is possible. Ten years later and he still insists he memorized the Sanskrit alphabet out of a curiosity about the language, and not because he thought I was learning it to impress our father.
The first thing I do is ask Mama if she is sure she feels all right.
All three of us are in the morning room, enjoying another cup of tea as the clock strikes ten o’clock. Sunlight, a rare commodity in recent days, pours in through the eastern exposure, and as I pull the needle through my embroidery frame, I wonder if she should have gone with the Holcroft sisters to call on the vicar and his sister.
“I think you could have done with the fresh air,” I say. “You are looking a little wan.”
Mama startles.
Wanis the description she uses to describe Bea’s complexion, and the thought of bearing her niece’s pallidness unsettles her.
“All you need is a little sunshine, does she not, Russell?” I ask my brother, who is sitting next to me on the settee with theCountry Register,which he is pretending to read. I know it is an affect because he has not turned the page in a half hour. “Perhaps you should have gone to call on the vicarage with the Holcroft sisters. It is not very far away, only a mile, and a walk can be invigorating. Or maybe a stroll around the park while the weather is clement. What we have seen of the park is lovely. If you are willing to give me another hour to finish this section of the design, I shall accompany you. We do not want to wait too long, or it will grow warm. I shall try to embroider faster so we can enjoy the fresh air as soon as possible and leave Russell to his newspaper. No doubt he wishes us to perdition so that he can enjoy his reading in silence.”
Mama owns herself content to wait for me, but her eyes stray longingly to the window, where the leaves of the tall trees dapple the sun on the ground.
Swearing softly, I curse my clumsiness and announce with frustration that I must undue the last few stitches. “I am sorry, but they are in the wrong place. Here, Russell, why do you not entertain us with the latest gossip. What does theCounty Registerhave to say about the most recent gathering at the local assembly hall? I trust it was well attended. Does it say what color dress Miss Nutting wore? Or is that topic too frivolous? We are happy to hear about soil composition and harvest calendars, are we not, Mama? Anything to help pass the time until our walk. I do wish I were better at embroidery. Then we would be on our way and cease to pester my poor brother.”
Although I am prepared to make a half dozen comments regarding the tedious contents of the newspaper, it is notnecessary. Tossing the offending broadsheet to the side, Russell rises to his full height and says it would be a crime to waste another minute of the beautiful day by lingering inside. “I shall take you for a walk, Mama, as you are far more important than any periodical.”
Our mother coos in reply.
After they leave, I ply my needle for another five minutes to make sure they do not immediately return and the morning room is empty. Once I am confident they are gone, I stuff my embroidery into the basket and dash upstairs to deposit my belongings in my own bedchamber before continuing to the family wing. Mrs. Dowell’s rooms are located at the far end of the hallway, and I proceed cautiously along the corridor, keenly aware that any of the quarters may be occupied by members of the staff. A maid might be sweeping a fireplace or a footman delivering coal.
The risk I am taking is monumental.
If anyone discovers me rifling through Mrs. Dowell’s belongings, I am sunk.
The Hyde-Clares will be tossed out on their ears.
Unless it is a servant who is receptive to material compensation in exchange for their silence. Then I might be able to wiggle off the hook.
Except what did I have to offer of significant value? My most treasured possessions are sentimental, from the opal ring my grandmother left me to the cerulean silk that makes my eyes sparkle, and I have very little pin money.
To satisfy a bribe, I would have to apply to my father, which would almost be as wretched as expulsion from the premises.
Obviously, the best outcome all around is not to get caught.
To that end, I am relieved to see Mrs. Dowell’s door is open, because I can observe at a glance that Annie has accomplished her task: The lady’s maid is absent. Eagerly, I step across thethreshold, partially closing the door behind me, and dash to the escritoire. All I need is a brief sample—a few lines is sufficient—and the letter lying on the writing table is perfect, as it is several paragraphs long.
My heart races with the thrill of discovery and the terror of confirmation.
Once I know, I will never be able to unknow.
Silently, I offer an apology to Sebastian and place Eternally Devoted’s final missive next to his sister’s letter to make the side-by-side comparison. I am almost incapable of breath as I notice the similarity in the slant of the letters. Elegant and tight, the words tilt forward in tandem, and I am astounded to realize my theory is correct. The moment Mrs. Dowell threw the playing slips into the fire, I had a very strong suspicion, and yet it is dizzying to actually see it con?—
The capital D is missing a loop.
Eternally Devoted curled the swirl at the top left of the letter so fulsomely, it formed a second loop outside the letter.
Mrs. Dowell’sddoes not have the same affectation, and none of her lowercasei’s are dotted. They are all abrupt little lines with no corresponding mark.
The writers are not one and the same.
I am struck by a baffling combination of disappointment and relief. Her innocence is good—I do notwantSebastian’s sister to be a ruthless killer—and yet it means I must proceed with my investigation, increasing the risk to myself by pursuing further suspects.
Sarah is next.
