“Oh,” Mira stood, “I’ll need to call a carriage.”
“Nonsense. You can sleep in Mary’s room. Come along.”
Mrs. Sherard led the way up the stairs and helped her find some night clothes.
“Thank you, Mrs. Sherard,” Mira said.
Mrs. Sherard paused in the doorway. “Considering the circumstances, you may call me Mamma, if you’d like. Sleep well, Mira.”
February 16, 1889: Morning
It was a long and fitful nightfor Mira. She tossed and turned, her mind repeating conversations from the day previous. When she wasn’t dwelling on her improved relationship with Mrs. Sherard—Mamma, she mentally corrected herself—she was fretting over Mary. One sunset left. Would Hoddle really kill her?
The familiar ache of loss settled in her chest. It didn’t make sense. Her interactions with Mary Sherard were fraught with vitriol and tension. The row on Valentine's Day was evidence of that. And yet, she was grieving her all the same.
Was she feeling this way because it brought up the memory of when she learned about Emilie’s death? Perhaps it was because she could already sense how the loss of Mary would affect Byron’s family. Or was it because somehow, despite it all, she had some sort of attachment for her future sister-in-law, even if Mary would never return such familial affection?
It was still dark outside, but Mira couldn’t stand to lie in bed and wait. Her anxiety urged her to move. She rose exhausted, limbs drooping as she dressed for the day in her rumpled clothes.
As she buttoned her boots, she noticed some papersstrewn on the floor near the hearth. Strange, considering that everything else in Mary’s room was in pristine order. She hadn’t seen the mess the night before due to her own fatigue and the darkness of the room. She took a seat on the floor and examined the disarray. A stack of envelopes had toppled, splayed across the floor with a loose ribbon beneath them. A few of them were open and set to the side, the pages of each letter scattered.
Against her better judgement, she picked up one of the stray envelopes and read the sender’s name:Wilburn Treadway.
The evidence around her formed a scene in her mind’s eye, so distinct and clear, it was as if Mira was watching it in the waking world.
Mary had returned from the Risewell’s Valentine’s party, devastated from the conversation—whether with Wilburn or Mira and Byron, it was impossible to know. She came into her room, unable to hide her tears.
There were certainly tear stains on the letters.
Opening a drawer kept shut for twenty years, she retrieved Wilburn’s love letters. She pulled on the ribbon that held them and read each line, knowing that her future with him had been lost.
One of the letters was singed near the top edge, as if Mary had intended to burn it before blowing out the flame. There were enough empty envelopes that she had likely succeeded in burning some of them before this one. Did it contain something that convinced her to save it?
If it was a love letter, it certainly didn’t start like one.
***
My dear Miss Sherard,
Thank you for asking after my wife and her recovery following the birth of our son. She is doing well, and so is the baby. Our oldest, Silas, is already doting on him.
I am troubled to hear of the death of your sister and cannot imagine the devastation your family must feel. It is such a tragedy to have lost all your sisters, and Alice so soon after Edith. I remember you telling me how much you valued your relationship with them, how important their confidence was. I am so sorry for your loss.
Please give my love to your family. Even after all this time, I still care for all of them, though society does not allow us to be friends.
Sincerely,
—Wilburn Treadway
***
Mira swallowed, setting the letter down again. She never should have intruded on Mary’s correspondence. But there was a glimpse, a glimmer of a past Mary as seen through Wilburn Treadway’s eyes. Mary loved her sisters dearly—loved her family dearly—and to lose so many of them had left her in ruins. It didn’t excuse her behavior, not for a moment, but Mira could understand it.
The light finally crept over the windowsill, reminding her of the impending deadline. One more sunset. Two more days. Sister or not, Mira would do everything she could to save Mary.
She crept downstairs and into the sitting room, finding the papers arranged as they were the night before. She gathered the ones that had fallen to the floor and sorted them in her hands. Soon, she’d stacked the various ciphers and attempts in piles on the low table. The sheet music was in its own stack and the letter that accompanied the package sat alone.
She picked it up, scanning it again. It really was a strange letter. For instance, if it were sent by Maureen’s great-uncle to her mother, why was it signed “H.M.” instead of “Your loving uncle,” or something to that effect?
