And now this unexpected letter arrived from some Mr. S. Smith, raising the hackles on Alex’s neck.
Most significantly, how did this man know thatAlexwas a survivor of the wreck? That information had never been made widely known. Andrew and Rafe were the more public figures connected with the wreck. But the information was no secret, either. A determined personcouldlearn of Alex’s presence aboard the ship.
The missive was signed ‘Mr. S. Smith’ which, as a name, was so common, it could belong to hundreds of thousands of men. Alex remembered several sailors by name of Smith aboardThe Minerva.
What did S. Smith know? Was he another survivor ofThe Minerva? Or a family member of one of the crew?
The handwriting—assuming it was Mr. Smith’s own and not that of a local vicar acting as a scribe—was that of an educated man: an elegant copperplate of neat strokes and swooping flicks. Among those who had been aboardThe Minerva, only Alex, Andrew, and Rafe had such educated penmanship.
The letter yielded few other clues. The return address provided was an inn in Wetherby that likely took in post, as well as saw to travelers and the like. Nearly all postal offices in England were extensions of some other business. In this case, the innkeep would simply hold onto a letter for S. Smith until the man himself turned up to retrieve it.
The larger question—
Was the issue truly related toThe Minerva? Or was S. Smith simply using that fact to get Alex’s attention? Had the recent notice in the newspaper jarred this man loose?
But again, how had he known to contact Alex?
And, most importantly, would Alex tell the rest of the Brotherhood about this?
This was the problem. Every additional piece of information that surfaced—the captain and first mate had survived, the ship had exploded—sent Kieran into another downward spiral of fevered hopes that ended in dashed dreams.
A year ago, Kieran had been a man on the brink.
“I cannae sleep,” Kieran whispered, clutching Alex’s coat, whisky soaking the air. “I keep hearing Jamie screaming my name as the ship explodes, the flames crawling over her—”
“Ye are driving yourself insane with such thoughts, Kieran.” Alex lifted his friend, attempting to coax his fevered body back to bed. “Ye need rest and warm food—”
“I need more whisky!” Kieran shouted, pushing Alex back. “I cannae bear the pain! Ye dinnae comprehend what it’s like, tae notknowwhat happened tae your own wife!”
“I may not understand, Kieran, but I know that whisky isnae the answer!”
“Like hell, it isnae!”
Alex hated this. The situation was too much like Ian. Too much like his father.
He would not lose another person he loved—
Alex shook off the memory.
Kieran was doing better. He was. Their conversation in Edinburgh last autumn and Kieran’s subsequent letters convinced Alex of this.
The missive from S. Smith would likely come to naught, and Alex would tell no one about it until he had more information.
Regardless, meeting with the man was of the utmost importance. Fortunately, it would be a small matter to divert to Wetherby on the way back to Edinburgh. He should be able to meet with this Mr. S. Smith before a week was out. In the meantime, he would at least ask for more information.
Another glance at his pocket watch showed that he still had an hour before needing to dress for dinner with his Whitaker cousins.
Alex pulled out a fresh sheet of foolscap and began writing his reply.
3
In the end, Freddie’s sticky hands had rendered Lottie’s frock equally sticky. So after delivering him to the nursery, she summoned her maid and changed into a silk dress of deep lavender.
Lottie knew she needed to leave off the blacks and grays and lavenders of mourning. Margaret had cast off her dark colors before Christmas.
“Between Anne’s passing and Papa’s death, I’ve been in mourning for nearly eighteen months,” her sister had said as a maid tied the tapes of a red satin gown. “I still have a husband and a son who live, and I shall cease being a black rain cloud and wear color for them, if no one else.”
But for Lottie, who had no husband or child, the blacks and grays reflected the shade of her heart—the hovering weight of loss. The endless sting of Papa’s passing and Gabriel’s tragic death and little Anne’s absence.
